


This Love

by orphan_account



Series: Growing Pains [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit- All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings- All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Cutting, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-06-04 01:17:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6635128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the world, Legolas is a waiter, struggling to keep his head above the water.</p><p>But to Thranduil, he is a lost son, the emptiness in his soul that is causing him to fade away a little bit everyday.</p><p>To the world, Thranduil is a famous and successful novelist, with money and glory and fame.</p><p>To Legolas, he is the thing he yearns for the most, the only thing with worth in his desolate world.</p><p>This is not a tale of a father and his son, of star-crossed lovers, or bitter enemies.</p><p>This is the story of love.</p><p>(Permanently suspended)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!!!  
> I was so glad to see everyone wanted a sequel to my Growing Pains! I'm happy I don't have to take away a second chance at being happy from my favorite Elves!!  
> But I must say, this is gonna get a whole lot worse before you can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  
> This is set five years after Growing Pains too, by the way!!!  
> (If reading material with self harm and suicide and whatnot triggers you, please don't read this! In no way do I condone this type of behavior! If you're having trouble, please get help from a doctor or a loved one!)  
> Well, after heeding the tags and reading this long, boring note, please enjoy!!!

Legolas sees red. 

It is splashed in the stop signs and lights of the busy city, reflecting off the rain drops and turning them into the all-too-familiar crimson.

It is painting the shirts or boots of the many model-like citizens, either flattering their body figure or shaming it.

It is stained on his once white tiles, and no matter how hard he tries, he just can't seem to scrub it out of the squares of porcelain.

Red drips down the small razor blade in his hand, paints trails down his pale arms. It seeps into all directions out of the long, parallel lines that are neatly cut across his wrists, his thighs.

Red is everywhere, really.

It's hard not to see it.

He is careful though, making sure the blade doesn't run too deep, because then the red overwhelms him, and he can't stop until he passes out.

But it's deep enough to sting, to hurt him.

It's relief.

•••••••

Thranduil is empty.

There is nothing left. 

He notices that, in the past five years, his novels, once filled with tales of love and perseverance, are now filled with heartbreak and despair. 

A mere reflection of his own soul.

And people love it, because never before had he become so successful, so well known. What once took him a few months to earn he now earned overnight.

He was fine with it, but there was still something missing, a gaping hole in his soul.

He knows what it is.

And what it is he could never have.

After that fateful night, they never spoke to one another. He heard from Kate that Legolas had lived with her for a couple of months before disappearing off the radar completely.

It worries him, and scares him to no end, but part of him knows that his child is alive somewhere.

And that is what he holds onto.

Whenever he steps into the public, into a coffee shop, or bookstore, or shopping center, he always keeps an eye out for his child, tries and hopes to see the delicate golden strands and happy blue eyes he misses so much.

There are so many strangers and people in New York, many of them beautiful and graceful.

But none of them are as exquisite or enchanting as his son.

So it brings Thranduil down, sinks his heart deeper into the black pit of torture and anguish when he discovers he cannot find his child, that it would be remotely impossible even if he tried.

So he hardly steps out anymore, and drinks, and drinks, and drinks alcohol like its his lifeline, the only thing that keeps him alive.

And it probably is, because even a full day without something to dilute and numb the pain would completely kill him.

It's funny, the author muses as he feels the burning liquid sink deeper into his bloodstream, that he should survive so many ages, survive dragon fire and countless wars...

Only to be brought down to his very knees by the one person he loves the most.

••••••••

Legolas keeps seeing his father's pictures in the tabloids, splashed across gossip magazines and catching the eyes of many on the countless billboards his books are advertised.

It makes him miss him more.

Legolas, in his desperation to distract himself from the terrible emptiness that came with missing Thranduil, had begun cutting, glad the searing burn was able to pull his mind away.

When cutting began failing to distract him, he began convincing himself that he was doing it for Thranduil.

Because he still feels responsible; whenever he sees the fake smile plastered on his father's face, sees the despair hidden in his crystal eyes, he blames himself, because it was he who took the color out of his eyes, he who put the person he loved the most through the worst torment.

He hates himself.

"I'm doing this for you, Ada," he says shakily as he carves poorly formed letters into his pale thighs, pretending his father can hear him. 

The carving burns, but it's not what makes tears spring to his eyes.

An almost maniacal smile spreads across his lips as he gazed down at the newly formed word with a masochistic sense of happiness.

"Worthless," he reads out loud, and he ignores the pain throbbing in his leg, the warm tears sliding down his cheeks. "That's all I am, isn't it, Ada?"

••••••••

Thranduil and Legolas, though far apart and worlds away in mind, are connected, for they both hate that their hearts beat.

It reminds them that they are still living...

And living, they have to do so without the other by their side.


	2. Say Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Thranduil and Legolas are dying.
> 
> Just...in different ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the horrible summary >_> My mind refuses to work today.
> 
> Anyways here's another chapter! Happy (or angsty) readings!

Thranduil's drinking again.

He often finds himself looking through albums he made of Legolas' childhood, staring at the sweet, beautiful baby with sadness and regret.

He regrets he didn't love him enough, let him know just how much he needed him, or how much he wanted him to stay.

The sadness...well, it's no longer a feeling; it's a part of him now. A second doesn't pass when he isn't drowning in melancholy, just struggling and trying to find a breath of happiness just once more.

The harder he tries, the deeper he sinks.

So Thranduil stops trying.

It's only in the safety of his house that he allows himself to take off his mask, to sob and cry for what he has lost.

The loss of his wife, of his father, even of his very kingdom failed to hold a candle to the utter despair and loss he felt when Legolas had left him, the desolate meaningless existence mocking him and further torturing him.

He could feel himself fade further into nonexistence with each day, and, with the last years of the wretched pain he felt in his heart and fëá, he had become weak, closer to the point of expiring with each passing minute.

Life was empty.

Beads of liquid often fell upon the pictures, adding bitterness to the once happy memories.

He's staring at a picture of Legolas' 7th birthday, the time that they had so many slices of strawberry cake that they both had sugar highs at the end of the day.

They are both so happy in the Polaroid, wide, hilarious grins on their faces, and surrounded by balloons and confetti.

They echo of simpler times, of soft, gentle kisses, of sun rays warming their skin and love enkindling their hearts.

Thranduil wishes he could somehow go back in time.

••••••

"Wake up, dream boy!"

Legolas quickly startles, nearly jumping a foot in the air.

The angry, raven-headed co-waiter glares coldly at him, shoving a large tray of dishes at him pointedly. Legolas takes it with hesitation, swallowing as his arms tremble.

He has become so weak in the past 5 years; lack of nutrition has made his bones and hair brittle, knees and arms weak.

"You keep spacing out, and I'll have a word with the manager," Alfrid sneers, and the blonde nods, too fragile and tired to defend himself.

He quickly paces out of the kitchen, greeting the casually dressed party with a fake smile he's so use to donning it's become a second skin, and laying the plates of fast food before each of them.

He's extremely aware of the way his sleeves move whenever he extends his arms, afraid the red cuts and dark scars lining his wrists will show.

Having served the emotionless crowd, he sighs as he looks out the large windows. Everything, people, plants, and beasts, seems colorless, gray. 

There is no life.

No happiness.

Before he enters the kitchen again, he sees the manager, a broad, dark haired man with rough patches of scruff and warm, brown eyes walk up to him.

He feels his breath quicken, and he becomes afraid. He always tries to focus when on duty, pay attention to every command given to him and carry them out flawlessly. He needs this job; without it, he'd definitely lose money and sink into further debt. Without it, he'd definitely be homeless within the same month.

"Please don't have me fired," he begs, and it's sincere and it's the only thing he can say. 

Bard narrows his eyes, tilts his head a bit. "Fire you?"

"I'm so sorry about how I've been doing," he wrings his cold hands. "I know I've been spacing out and I'm trying not to, I swear! I--please don't--"

"Calm down, darling," Bard puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort the panicking young man. "No one is having you fired."

"But--but I--"

"Legolas, why don't you take the rest of the day off, okay?" Bard pats his shoulder, a concerned look in his eyes. "You seem to be...troubled. Maybe you should just--"

"No, I'm fine!" Legolas interrupts, wincing at the volume of his voice. "Sorry, I mean," he continued in a lower tone, "I'm fine. I'm okay to work. I just...have a lot on my mind."

It's the seventh time he had declined the offer, and he can see the suspicion in Bard's eyes.

"Really, Mr. Bowman," and he touches the hand on his shoulder almost reassuringly, when, in truth, he just really needs physical contact.

Bard's hand is rough and worn, very much unlike his father's smooth ones, but it's warm and comforting, and Legolas would happily take it instead of the cold, empty air.

Their eyes meet for a moment, and Legolas suddenly feels guilty, because he knows he doesn't deserve contact, much less comfort and sympathy, and he draws his hand back to where it once was, looking away.

He feels Bard's hand pull away, and the temporary warmth leave him.

If he had Thranduil, the warmth would be unending, everlasting, and sweet, he muses sadly.

"Alright," Bard says slowly, before his eyes narrow once more. "But tell me if you even need a week off, and I'll just have Alfrid cover for you, okay?"

"You've been so generous already, Mr. Bowman," Legolas admits, rubbing his arm. 

"It's no problem."

"No, really," Legolas shakes his head, a small smile on his face. "I'm okay, Mr. Bowman. Really.."

Bard sighs, and he puts both hands on Legolas' shoulders, looking him dead in the eyes.

"Alright," he says. "But let me leave you with a bit of advice, yeah?"

Legolas nods his assent.

"You seem like you're avoiding something..or running away from it. I know I may be just an old geezer to you, but..."

There's a pause.

"Don't run away from your problems, Legolas," he tells him seriously. "From what I've learned, they eventually catch up to you."

Bard's words, from that moment, are burned into his memory for the rest of his life.

•••••••

Legolas is sitting in the bathroom of his small, dingy apartment. He barely sees the cracks in the wall, the chipped, grey paint of the living room, or the dusty, rough carpet of his bedroom. He's always in the bathroom, making new blood stains on the white tiles.

It's normal, he thinks to himself.

He hates that his skin will heal unnaturally fast; it seems as if he had inherited his father's healing ability. Because of this, he will keep tearing his scars open every time they close, whimpering into his arm pathetically.

There are words scattered across his skin, across his thighs, words like 'worthless,' 'stupid,' 'ugly.'

He likes to see them carved into his skin, likes that they burn and hurt him.

Legolas' vision blurs with tears, and he continues to cut his wrists, a bit more careless and deeper than earlier. 

After Legolas manages to throw his razor blade back into the crimson-stained drawer from whence it came, he's made up his mind.

He's not going to run away.

He's solved the problem already.

The only solution that will leave everyone happy is if he just dies.

He's resigned to his fate, hasn't shed a tear, because he knows it'll be better for everyone. 

Bard won't have to worry about him. His mother won't have to deal with the fact that one day he might show up at her house in need of shelter.

Thranduil won't have to...

Well, he won't have to do anything.

The plan is sound and foolproof. But one thing lacks.

Legolas can't shake himself of his selfishness. He can't help but want just one good day to have in his heart and memory when he leaves.

So, after spending a part of the night purchasing a set of new razors and a bottle of ibuprofen, he's ready for the last step.

He just needs closure.

He knows he won't be happy unless he spends his last day with the one he loves most dearly, the only one who can really make him happy.

Long had he dreamed about the day when they'd be reunited, when he could apologize and say all the things he wanted to.

And so, Legolas decides.

He will meet Thranduil Saturday morning, finally get all the things weighing him down off his chest, and the following night, he will die.

••••••

Thranduil is shaking.

He had just come home from the hospital. Apparently, during a boring and uneventful meeting about his cover art for his latest novel, he had passed out.

It wasn't extremely unusual for him to lose consciousness though, thanks to his 'diet.'

What worried him (and soothed him in a strange manner as well) is what his doctor told him.

Normally he wouldn't listen to those imbeciles; he knew more about medicine and health than the smartest person on the earth.

But when the man in the lab coat told him what was happening to his body, he couldn't help but agree. He knew it was happening for a long while, ever since five years ago.

He shivers.

His body is ruined, has been through too much trauma for even the thought of healing to be reasonable.

He will be dead in a matter of months, the doctor solemnly told him.

He hadn't cried, isn't afraid.

He's ready for death; there is nothing left for him on earth, anyway.

What makes him worry though, makes him sick to his stomach, is the fact that he'll be leaving Legolas behind.

He knows it's best, that he should've let go of his child long ago, but he can't help but want to see him one last time, try to apologize for what he's done.

'No,' the demon in his mind whispers, 'he doesn't deserve an apology. After all, it's his fault you're fading.'

Thranduil's eyes burn as he tries not to think such venomous things, and he's lost in his thoughts. He barely feels his phone buzz against his chest.

In his mind, it's probably just Galion, telling him to eat again. In truth, he feels a bit bad for his assistant, because although Thranduil treats him fairly though a tad harshly, Galion still obviously cares about him. 

After all, he's the only one who seems to see through Thranduil's carefully built walls, notice his pain, his deep depression. He's the only one who realized that Thranduil had been purposely starving himself, to the extent of his ribs poking out of him so clearly they could be counted. 

Thranduil lets out a tremulous breath, pulling the cellphone out of his breast pocket.

What he sees makes him drop it in astonishment.

There is a number he's unfamiliar with, but it's message is simple, and complicated at the same time.

'Do you still live in New York?'

•••••••••

They hate their hearts.

It beats, mocking them, pumping their blood and convincing them that they are alive when in reality, they only exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *trembling smile*
> 
> Please leave a review or kudos if you liked it (or if you didn't, I don't mind XD)
> 
> Sorry it's abrupt and kinda floating around..I'm trying! 
> 
> I'll be back next week with a new update, so hang on tight people! It's gonna get seriously *imitates explosions*
> 
> ❤️


	3. In Silent Screams, and Wildest Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 meaningless, useless years have led up to this one point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone :)  
> How are you all doing this fine day/night? Good? I hope so!!   
> Enough with the small talk, go read and enjoy! :3

Legolas doesn't know if that was a good idea anymore.

He feels sick, nauseous. 

He's tapping his fingers against the table nervously, glancing around at all of the people in the coffee shop. It had come as a complete surprise to him when Thranduil had told him that yes, he still lived in New York, and he'd be honored to meet up with his son, so Legolas found it only appropriate to choose the coffee shop they always used to go to: Three Wishes.

It was a cute, small shop, with a little lounge and a few high tables, glowing stars across the slightly darkened walls. Legolas remembers how much they used to fascinate him, enchant him with their soft, yellow electric glow.

There aren't too many people; for a place with decent coffee and pastries, it only draws a small amount of patrons, keeping the shop a little low key.

Still, it's quite busier than normal on that fateful Saturday, and Legolas' sharp ears and eyes keep lookouts for his father in the sea of people and conversations.

Right at 9 AM, Thranduil appears, extremely punctual as ever.

Legolas' heart is stuck in his throat as his father approaches, beating erratically. He's still broad, but he's thinner than he remembers, his cheekbones extremely sharp and jutting out of his perfectly shaped face. 

He looks tired, slightly dark circles under his piercing, blue eyes. But what really strikes Legolas are his lips. No longer are they tilted in a genuine smile; no longer are they a soft pink, sweet and inviting.

They are a bit pale and blue (from the cold? Legolas doesn't know) like his skin, set in a firm, straight line, and betraying no emotion.

Luckily, Thranduil sees him, and is able to walk over without being recognized or seen, for that matter.

He quietly seats himself on the chair across Legolas with his normal grace.

In the sea of Thranduil's eyes, Legolas can see that his father is relieved, his heart a little lighter with the sight of his son.

But still, he does not smile, not even when Legolas forces himself to only in hopes of seeing a ghost of it on Thranduil's lips.

Neither say anything for a while, only studying the other.

It's Legolas who finally clears his throat. "Umm.. Hello."

Thranduil nods in acknowledgement.

Still no smile.

It brings Legolas' heart down, makes him sick to his stomach. Did Thranduil not want to see him?

"I'm sorry for..." Forcing you to come? Not talking to you for years?

Thranduil's eyes do not change, for they are still relieved. But they are not happy. The younger notices (in horror) that his father seems dead in the eyes, almost as if he's inattentive, unaware of what's going on.

It scares Legolas, and in a moment of bold fear, he grabs Thranduil's gloved hand that's on the table.

"Adar?" he calls softly, squeezing it tightly. He doesn't notice how thin it's become, how...delicate.

Thranduil seems to snap out of his trance-like state, and he looks at Legolas sharply. As soon as he registers that his son is holding his hand, it hurts him to realize that he probably won't be holding the same hand the next day, that Legolas and their meeting will all just be another phantom to haunt and torture him.

For this reason, he draws his hand away, soul crying when he sees the hurt look on Legolas' face.

"I..." Legolas pauses, studying Thranduil's stoic and cold behavior. He doesn't understand that Thranduil is just as lost as he is, pained at seeing him for the first time in five years. "Did..did you not want to meet me?"

When Thranduil's eyes narrow in confusion, Legolas takes his puzzlement as offense and he rushes to cover his 'mistake.' "I-I just mean...you don't look happy and--and you're not smiling--"

"I don't smile anymore," is the first sentence that Thranduil says, voice low and a bit rough with disuse. 

Legolas seems surprised at the statement, and at the same time, he's not.

The truth upsets him, disturbs him to the deepest depth of his soul.

Without his permission, his lips move and words come tumbling out, "Why not?"

The inquiry is simple, and Thranduil hates that Legolas pretends to care.

Under normal circumstances, the author would just glare at the whoever had the nerve so ask such a question, immediately silencing the inquirer and scaring him all at once.

It burns to realize that his son can still break his walls down with one touch, one question. He feels tears burn in his eyes and he blinks them away as he whispers, "It hurts too much."

Swallowing, he looks away, staring at the dark green tiles of the coffee shop. He doesn't see Legolas' chin begin to tremble in anguish, or his sharp nails dig into his clothed wrists with the intention to inflict pain upon himself.

Within a few minutes of silence between them, listening to the various conversations and orders going on around them, Thranduil realizes that their progress is not going anywhere.

He suddenly wants to be far away, far away from Legolas, from fame, from New York. He just wants to be detached from everything.

Maybe then he wouldn't love, and in turn, he wouldn't be hurt anymore.

Carefully building his walls around himself and fortifying them, determined not to let Legolas see his pain, he says, tone flat and emotionless once more,

"Why did you want to meet me?"

Legolas becomes hesitant, because he's afraid, afraid of what Thranduil will think if he answers the way he wants to.

If the man before him even is Thranduil.

"Well?" Thranduil prompts sharply.

"Umm," Legolas gulps, realizes that it's too late to back out. "I...I just wanted to say that I'm.."

Thranduil's staring almost blankly at him, waiting.

Legolas is a mess, had been a mess ever since he left, and it all comes spilling out.

"I'm sorry about leaving you, it was the worst mistake of my life. Now I see that you were just trying to protect me, you were only trying to do what was best for me, and...and when I left to try to escape what had happened to you and..and my guilt, I realized I couldn't escape from myself..."

By the end of his breathless statement, tears are gathered in his eyes, threatening to spill over, and he whispers, 

"I'm sorry."

Thranduil's quiet for a long while, simply staring at Legolas. 

The younger is nervous; the older is lost.

As the latter stares at his son, he realizes he has two choices. Seeing the pain on his face, in his eyes, Thranduil wants nothing more than to pull him into his arms and never let him go again. 

But the other part of Thranduil, the demon that had spawned in him out of the trauma and hurt he had been through in the last few years told him something.

Something that horrified and sickened the author.

Seeing Legolas vulnerable and in such a state made him feel (horribly) triumphant, as if his child hurting after he had been for years finally made him feel as if he wasn't alone in the sea of anguish.

He feels his lips curl, and he can't stop himself before he says, "You think, after all these years, you can just slip back into my life after all this time you've wasted, and expect me to forgive you?"

Legolas looks up, slightly astonished and completely hurt by his words. "What--no, of course not--"

"You're foolish, darling," and the last word, once said with love and devotion, is now full of contempt and mockery.

Legolas feels his nails dig into his palms as he tries to calm himself.

"Please... Beloved, I don't understand why--"

"Don't call me that," Thranduil whispers, and it pains him to say such a thing. But he knows he doesn't deserve such a title of respect and honor.

Not after what he's become.

Legolas opens his mouth, then shuts it, looking lost.

Out of all of the turnouts, this is the last one he expected.

Thranduil is trying so hard to keep the phrase on his lips in his mouth, because, no, he doesn't want to say it, but the demon, that horrible, wretched thing is forcing him.

In some ways, what he's about to say is true. He sometimes wonders if waiting for Legolas to be reincarnated after his son sailed to the Grey Havens was a mistake, if leaving the earth would've been better for the both of them.

It hurts to think that, to almost regret waiting thousands of years only to be served this wretched desolation.

But the question haunts him everyday, his decisions, both good and bad, come to him as phantoms in the night, stealing away the last bit of sun from his heart and life.

Tears blur his vision, and he whispers, "I wish I never would've seen you again."

Legolas chokes, a hand flying to his mouth to barely smother the broken-hearted whimper that leaves him. He stands at a lightning speed, startling Thranduil.

He's running out of the coffee shop before Thranduil can fathom.

Then, realizing how stupid he had acted only a few seconds earlier, he curses.

He regrets every single word, the way he acted; Thranduil knows that that might have been their last chance at reconciliation before he fades, and he sincerely doesn't want a cold and dark stranger to be Legolas' last memory of him. He secretly hopes Legolas understands, knows that the monster inside Thranduil was of his father's doing, and not of Legolas' own.

"Damn it," he whispers, standing up and rushing out to follow his son. 

He runs out of Three Wishes, temporarily disoriented in the sea of people for a moment.

Then he sees Legolas' golden strands down the street, and he runs as quickly as his legs will carry him.

The only thought blaring in his mind is simply this:

I can't lose him.

Not again.

"Legolas!" he shouts as he runs toward him. He can see the flashes of cameras go off in the corner of his eye, but he doesn't care about it, doesn't care that it'll probably be all over the Internet or gossip magazines the next day.

He's relieved when he catches up to his son (but just barely) and he grabs onto Legolas' thin wrist, only to have it jerked away from him.

"Stay away from me!" Legolas cries, turning around and looking through bleary, tear-filled eyes at his father. He takes a few steps back when Thranduil tries to advance, not knowing that with each step, a knife pierces his father's heart.

People walk around them, most of them too absorbed in their own world to notice that two particular ones are crashing and burning right beside them.

"Legolas, please--I'm sorry," he apologizes breathlessly, tears welling in his blue eyes. He sees pain in Legolas' face, knows how hurt he is by his words and actions, and it only multiplies his own pain.

"I knew this was a mistake," Legolas whimpers, almost to himself, wiping his eyes hastily. "I knew I shouldn't have reached out to you."

"No, no, please don't regret that," Thranduil says, wondering heartbrokenly what would've happened if he simply died without having a chance at reconciliation with his son. "I didn't mean what I said...I just...I haven't been --"

Legolas shakes his head, biting his lip as he tries not to let his years spill over. His efforts are useless though, and drops of sadness drip down his face, further adding to Thranduil's hurt.

He dares to take a step to his child, and Legolas doesn't move back, too lost in his own world of heartache.

"Legolas, my darling," Thranduil whispered, but the term of endearment felt foreign on his lips; he felt unworthy of calling his love something of that ilk after how he treated him. "I'm...I'm sorry for what I said. I spoke from my heart and not my head--"

"So that is how you truly feel, then," Legolas whispers.

Thranduil is suddenly aware of the photographers that caught up with him, the bright flashes and sudden shouts. He swallows, grabbing Legolas' wrist tightly and dragging him down the street.

Luckily, his son follows him quietly, but in the midst of the shouting and flashes and confusion, Thranduil can feel the agony and distress rolling off of his child in waves.

He's at the building of his penthouse in only a few short minutes, and he pulls Legolas inside, leaving the party of photographers and fans outside.

It's quieter as they walk through the halls and past the rooms.

Still, he doesn't speak a word to his love, afraid that if he does, he will fall apart. He waits until they are in the safety of his penthouse before he releases Legolas.

It's almost as if time was frozen inside Thranduil's home, 'their' home, for when they entered, Legolas realizes that everything is still exactly the same. The furniture hasn't been moved, the couches and tables still in the same exact places he remembers seeing.

Thranduil quietly moves to the small table beside one of the large windows, not bothering to throw a glance in his child's general direction. He picks up a glass (in all honesty, a too frequently used glass), filling it with the strong, red wine.

He takes a sip, his shaking, white hand nearly dropping the glass. He finally turns and looks at Legolas after the red wine enters his bloodstream, calming him.

The younger blonde is glancing around the room, blue, teary eyes wide and mouth slightly open.

He had no idea that Thranduil had kept the penthouse, thought that his father would've sold it once he left.

It breaks his heart; the thought that he never expected to re-enter his childhood home again after he left, that he expected everything would be changed if not gone. 

He doesn't know that Thranduil kept it exactly the same way Legolas left it in hopes that he could fool himself, trick himself into thinking that Legolas was just at school or out with friends.

Thranduil would never admit it, but he'd still cook enough for the two of them (only to let the whole thing go cold and to waste), he'd still sit at the kitchen table till the ungodly hours in the morning holding tightly onto the hope that one day, maybe one day, he'd see his child walk through the door.

Legolas' chin wobbles, and he tries not to cry, but it's all too overwhelming, being close to Thranduil, being in his home, once full of joyful and happy memories, now only shadows of what they once were.

He's soon sobbing into his forearm, sinking to the floor in despair and anguish. 

It hurts to think of what he left behind, of what he will be leaving behind permanently. Legolas wishes it was easier, if somehow he could go through this without that horrible ache in his chest.

Thranduil tries to resist the urge to pull his child into his arms, but it's breaking his heart just as much as its breaking Legolas', and it's only a matter of seconds before he walks over, shaking.

He's hesitant, though; he's afraid to touch Legolas in a loving way, in such a way that would remind them both of what they had lost over the past years and only wound their hearts and souls more.

But it's only when Legolas' cries grow louder, when he begins trembling and shaking with his suffering, that Thranduil sinks to his knees, touches Legolas' back tentatively, trying to offer some comfort.

Legolas immediately latches onto Thranduil tightly, burying his face in his chest and crying.

Thranduil's heart is crippled with each of his son's sobs, and he wraps Legolas in his arms tightly, biting his lip as he feels his own tears stream down his hollow cheeks.

They stay like that for hours, just holding one another as they fall apart.

The sun is long gone when Legolas finally quiets, the darkness of the night descended upon them.

When Thranduil is sure that his son won't burst into tears at the slightest movement, he secures him tightly in his arms and picks him up, shifting his light body so that one arm is under his bent knees, and one arm is supporting his back.

Quietly and slightly shaking, he walks to Legolas' bedroom, opening it.

Like the rest of the penthouse, it's still the same, the shelves filled with the same childhood books, the desk and chairs that once held a weight but now only collect dust.

Legolas is quiet, unmoving in his arms. His eyes, finally dried, are emotionless, glazed over.

Thranduil lays his child on his bed, sitting beside him for a moment before covering his love with the blankets and drawing them up to his chin.

The thought of leaving him tears his heart apart, but he knows it's best for the both of them.

He bends over and kisses Legolas' forehead, unable to resist the temptation to do so.

Legolas' blue eyes look at him as he smoothes his blonde hair out of his face. 

He smiles bitterly when he realizes that his son is still as beautiful and enchanting as he was when he left him, as if no time had passed between them, even though his eyes are slightly puffy from all the crying, nose red and face a bit blotchy.

"Go to sleep, Legolas," he murmurs, staring at him for a short while before finally finding the strength to stand and leave.

He's nearly out the door when Legolas' raspy, quiet voice pierces through the silence.

"Will you not stay with me, Adar?"

Thranduil pauses. He knows it really won't do them good, especially if Legolas decides to leave the next day.

He turns, about to refuse his angel with a heavy heart, until he sees the hopeful look on his face, the trembling lips.

When he finds that he has neither the strength nor will to further the gap between them, he walks over silently.

Legolas moves over closer to the wall without a word, Thranduil slips in beside his son equally as silent.

It's a bit awkward for a minute, as they lie a foot apart from one another, with the older wishing he could hold his love as he falls asleep, and the younger afraid of what will happen if he tries to hold Thranduil like he desires to, afraid his father will reject him and leave altogether.

A moment of foolish brilliance or brave stupidity passes, and Legolas moves into Thranduil's arms, willing to take a risk. He buries his face in Thranduil's strong shoulder and lets out a shuddering breath as one of his arms wind about Thranduil's extremely small waist.

Thranduil's rigid for a moment.

But then his comforting, thin arms wind around Legolas' body, his mouth pressing to his forehead. 

"Goodnight, 'Las..."

He doesn't reply; he is already lost in a fantasy world without pain or suffering.

•••••••••

Both Thranduil and Legolas finally realize why their hearts continuously beat.

Not to hurt them.

Not to remind them that they were still alive.

Not to mock them.

Their hearts were only trying to find it's missing half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that wasn't too bad...forgive my spelling/grammatical errors if out find any >_>  
> If you enjoyed, please don't be afraid to leave a comment or kudos! They make me happy!  
> Thanks for reading, friends!


	4. I'm Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right at that moment, he's satisfied, light-hearted and blissful.
> 
> Only until he realizes that he's supposed to be dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! Sorry this is a tad late, I've been super busy!  
> But enough of my lame excuses; go read and enjoy please!

When Legolas wakes, he is warm, the morning sun filtering through the thin curtains and bathing himself and his father in a soft, heated glow.

He is in his father's arms still, his mind gloriously blank, and he sighs.

He shifts in Thranduil's arms, presses his face against Thranduil's warm neck and gently lays a kiss to his father's clavicle.

It's been too long since he had the privilege of showing affection and being shown it, and he quietly revels in it.

He feels safe, content, love making warmth blossom in his heart and his cheeks.

He knows that things between them aren't completely fixed, that they still have things to go over and talk about.

But right at that moment, he's satisfied, light-hearted and blissful.

Only until he realizes that he's supposed to be dead.

It all comes rushing back with the swiftness of lightning, with the crashing of a thousand waterfalls all in one little space.

The plans, the pills, the knives.

He chokes.

Legolas' mind starts to race and his throat emits a strangled sound. He feels tears well up in his eyes when he realizes something horrifying and stomach-churning: 

He doesn't want to die anymore.

He feels as if his chance to be happy is here, is close and obtainable. Maybe if he stays, he won't regret it.

But then, he thinks again of why he thought of suicide, why it's the only answer.

He can't change the fact that it's the remedy for the situation he is in; the only escape from the sudden soul-crushing loneliness and heartache.

Tears begin to fall.

He realizes once more that everyone, even including his own father, would be better off without him, could live their lives peacefully and joyously without his sickening presence.

Although he had always longed to be wanted, to feel belonging in the world, he had always felt out of place when he wasn't in his father's arms. There was no comfort, all beautiful and blissful simplicity taken out of his life and replaced with disastrous chaos and disorder when he couldn't be in Thranduil's immediate prescience. 

And although he had accepted the fact that he'd never have that comfort of his father's love or affection again, he had also accepted the fact that he'd never be happy again, never feel peaceful or content for even just a moment.

He sobs at the thought, immediately smothering the pathetic sounds in his palm when his father groans. With a bleeding heart, he detangles himself from Thranduil as gently as he can.

It's so hard for him to do something which is seemingly so simple, because pulling away from Thranduil is like tearing his soul into tiny pieces and throwing them to the wind.

The older stirs for a moment, a frown appearing on his face, a soft moan escaping from his lips, and Legolas swallows, chin trembling violently with his distress. 

He stares at Thranduil for what he believes will be the last time, studies his pale, almost gray skin, his golden, silver hair spread about him like a halo. His eyelashes are still dark and thick, still wet with tears and pressed against his cheeks. 

His chin wobbles, and he leans down, pressing his lips to his father's. It feels so bizarre and surreal, to feel the soft though chapped flesh he had longed for for countless days and years, but it ends too quickly, and when he pulls away, he feels the final string connecting himself to the earth snap.

Standing on shaky legs, he stumbles backwards for a second, trying to burn the image of his father in his mind and convince himself that Thranduil would be better off without his stupid son.

Then he turns and he's running, running out of the place he once called home. He's surprised he can move, can still breathe with the crushing weight in his chest.

His apartment isn't too far, and as he runs back to the place he thought appropriate to call 'hell,' his mind races.

The city commotion is drowned out by the sound of blood pounding in his ears when he enters his apartment, has been drowned out since he began running.

Tears are streaming down his cheeks, and he's sobbing breathlessly, nearly collapsing onto the floor had he not grabbed the counter to steady himself.

A war is being waged in his mind; the literal question "to be" or "not to be" bouncing off the walls of his mind and driving him insane.

On one hand, he knows that it's best, leaving the earth would solve all of his problems and perhaps prevent many from even happening. Even if he reconciled with his father and was taken back, things would be different. They'd never be able to look at each other without remembering that horrible pain, the pain Legolas brought upon himself and inflicted on his father.

But on the other, he wants to take that risk, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, their love will get them through, will make it all worth it. 

But it's selfish.

He doesn't deserve Thranduil's love, not after he discarded it so quickly and harshly and without another thought.

He left Thranduil on the cold, hard ground in an attempt to escape his own discomfort and sorrow.; completely disregarded the person who cared for him and loved him beyond what was required because he wasn't man enough to face his mistakes.

It's that thought that solidifies his determination to end it, but it does nothing to quell the relentless pour of tears down his smooth cheeks, only makes his sobs of distress and anguish louder.

He doesn't remember grabbing the bottle of ibuprofen, downing more than half the bottle with a few gulps. He doesn't remember it slip through his fingertips, spilling all over the kitchen floor.

For as long as he'd been cutting, he would always use his small razors, precision and control being his top priorities. 

But he doesn't care, because now he's trying to hurt himself permanently, now he isn't trying to keep the cuts within parameters that can be covered with cloth.

He stumbles to the other side of his small kitchen, hastily jerking open the knife drawer and drawing out his sharpest one.

As he drags it jaggedly over his skin, tears mingling with crimson blood, and he sobs.

With each cut, another nail is hammered into his coffin, another shovel of dirt six feet below.

Three dozen cuts earlier, he was a full blown mess, sobbing and crying out in pain and sorrow.

Three dozen cuts later, he's quiet, now laying in a pool of warm crimson, sleepy and going in and out of consciousness.

He's shuddering slightly.

He wishes that he was afraid, that the fear of dying would spur him to take his cellphone out of his pocket and call someone, anyone, for help.

But no, he's resigned to his fate, bleeding out in his kitchen is better than going through more heartache, more trials; it's better than continuing to hurt his father in such an intense and insensitive way.

Quietly, he uses the last reserves of his strength, turns his head just slightly to see a picture of his father and himself on his kitchen counter above.

He's young, Legolas forgets how young he was, but he's barely above the age of a toddler. He's sitting in his father's lap, hanging onto his neck with a wide, large grin.

Thranduil's arm is around his small waist, eyes closed as his nose presses gently against Legolas' cheek, and a soft, sweet smile on his lips.

The picture puts a lump in Legolas' throat, makes his vision blurry. He thinks of simpler times, when he was free to give and shower his father with affection without the fear of being hurt or becoming heartbroken. He thinks of how he used to be so happy, how he used to see everything not as they were to him now. 

Everything used to have color.

Now everything is black and white. 

He shivers as the tears slowly make their way down his cheeks, and with his dying strength, his lips move. 

He barely hears himself, but the words are clear.

"I'm sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A comment, kudos, or anything would really really make me happy; pleeeeeaase????
> 
> *runs away*


	5. You Can Stay Within These Walls and Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil confronts his son in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about this late update... Life has been unpleasant to the point of sucking a whole lot..
> 
> But anyways, please continue!

When Thranduil wakes, he is cold.

His hand reaches out, blindly trying to find his child. He bolts up when he feels no indication of warmth, no indication of life.

Legolas is gone.

It tears at Thranduil, shatters his already broken heart into tiny shards. He shakes, eyes brimming full of tears.

He wraps his arms around his chest, trying to keep the feeling of utter despair and desolation at bay as long as he can. 

He barely feels his sharp ribs, or his cold skin.

Absently, he wonders if it was only a dream, and the thought hurts too much, so he immediately digs his fingernails into his arms to try and distract himself.

Hearing his cellphone buzz from his bedside table, he glances at it dejectedly.

It's a private number, and some hope swells in him, thinking that maybe, just maybe, it is his son.

But no.

It's a nurse, delivering the information that his one and only love is in the hospital, fighting for his life.

•••••••

Thranduil is staring at his motionless son with dead eyes, a heavy cloak of melancholy and bitterness surrounding him.

The small hospital room smells of death, and he hates it.

His throat is still sore from having vomited so violently on receiving the news.

His heart still beats erratically, from the fact that he nearly killed himself while he drove to the hospital at a dangerous speed, or the fact that Legolas looks so...dead, he doesn't know.

Needless to say, when Thranduil found out Legolas had tried to kill himself, his will to live was weakened to the point of almost being erased from existence, what was remaining of his strength draining completely from his soul and heart.

Had Legolas succeeded in suicide, there would not have been one but two bodies to be buried that day.

Thranduil's holding onto his son's pale, cool hand, bottom lip trembling as he runs his fingers along the back of it. Legolas' arms are bandaged, securely strapped to the arms of the bed for safety measures. It completely destroyed his heart when the nurses told him that they had to restrain him in such a way, to ensure that when he awoke, he wouldn't immediately begin damaging things out of anger or distress.

He doesn't sob, only lets silent tears stream down his hollow cheeks. It's one of the rare times that he doesn't care enough to hide his emotions in public; if it were any other situation, he would've been damned if he even shed a single tear.

For now, he is only holding onto the hope that he'll be able to see Legolas' blue eyes again.

•••••••••

He does get to see them.

When they open, first they are filled with disorientation, confusion. Thranduil quietly lets him take in his surroundings, afraid that if he'll speak, he might risk upsetting his child.

It's in vain though, because once the young boy realizes what happened, where he was, he begins screaming like a pained animal or a madman, trying to jerk his wrists free.

Thranduil tries to soothe him, takes his fist in his larger hand and holds onto it, pressing his palm against Legolas' pale cheek.

His heart breaks as Legolas keeps screaming and thrashing, anguished tears making their way down his face.

"Why am I still alive?" he cries, the rest of his sentences coming out as intelligible sobs. Legolas doesn't realize how much pain each of his words are inflicting on his father, how completely wounded Thranduil is at his devastation.

It's only a matter of short minutes (eternity for Thranduil, really) when a team of doctors and nurses rush in, one of them grabbing the father and all but ripping him away from the horrible scene.

There are tears blurring his vision, and he begs to be let back in, promising that he can calm his child down.

The doctor disregards him, instead leaving him outside in the white, empty hallways, alone.

Alone with his thoughts, his demons, and his ghosts.

•••••••

When he is allowed reentry into his son's room, Legolas is quiet, staring at the walls with a blank and dead look.

It chills Thranduil to the bone, but he silently proceeds nonetheless, takes the seat besides his son's bed.

He sees the bloodied bandages on a table out of the corner of his eye, knows that, thanks to Legolas' struggle to free himself, he ripped open his wounds, and they had to be re-stitched, re-bandaged.

It makes him angry, more angry than he has been in the last five years, to think that Legolas would be so reckless, so desperate to hurt himself.

It's quiet for a short while as the storm brews and stirs up in his soul; in that amount of time, the older Elf's hands formed shaking fists, piercing blue eyes becoming narrowed.

Legolas has yet to look at him.

"How could you do this?" Thranduil finally says, his words a soft whisper and a false promise of gentle mildness.

Legolas doesn't answer, keeps his gaze fixed on the empty white wall instead, further irking Thranduil.

A fire is awoken in him, giving him strength, and his next words are dripping with venom.

"I asked you a question, foolish child."

Legolas' lips wobbles when the sound of his father's contempt reaches his ears, and he swallows.

He's determined not to speak, not to say a word to his father of his reason behind his seemingly 'idiotic' choice of action, because he knows the truth will only destroy what's left of his father, and he doesn't want to be the cause of Thranduil's complete and utter despair. 

He loves him too much.

"How could you throw your life away so easily and rashly like this?" Thranduil continues, egged on by his son's silence. "How could you be so stupid?"

Legolas turns his head away, closes his eyes tightly as if he's trying to hide; from Thranduil or his words, he doesn't know. What he also isn't aware of is the fact that the action is more transparent than crying; he doesn't know his trembling lips and tightly shut eyes portray more sadness than tears.

Seeing his son's melancholy does something to Thranduil. Pours a bucket of cold water onto him. 

His mind whispers the thought that Legolas could be dead, that things could've turned out so different. That if Legolas' neighbor hadn't called the police when he heard his cries, that maybe at this moment, he would be preparing to bury his child.

It stabs at his heart, pierces it, bleeds it, and when he begins talking once more, his voice is noticeably softer, a little less steady. "...How could you even think about hurting yourself like this?"

There's a pause, a sharp inhale of air.

"How could you have acted like this wouldn't matter, not leaving a note or anything? No explanation, no apology. It's as if you thought you were worthless to all of us, to me."

Legolas swallows when his father hits the nail right on the head.

Thranduil notices.

There is no sound in the room for a long while, only the rhythmic 'beep-beep-beep' coming from the heart monitor beside the bed.

Voice full of distress, heart becoming heavy as lead in his chest, Thranduil whispers, 

"You don't think that...do you?"

He doesn't know if he wants the answer.

But he gets it when legolas' traitorous lips whisper out a soft word of affirmation.

And the whole world comes crashing down. 

Thranduil's eyes fill with tears, and he feels himself choke.

"I don't regret what I tried to do," Legolas whispers softly, voice flat yet somehow still full of pain and sorrow. "I just wish it worked."

"Legolas," he murmurs, the hurt in his heart making it difficult to speak. 

"I wish I were dead," his son says, and it's quiet, suddenly drained of emotion. It sounds as if it were a simple statement, as if he was informing his father that the sky was blue or the sun was shining.

"You can't say that," Thranduil says heartbrokenly, and, shaking, he brushes Legolas' hand unconsciously with his fingertips, almost trying to reassure himself that his child is still there.

"You'd be better off without me ruining your life," he continues, face staid but inwardly and completely upset that his secret is spilling out of him, and he can't stop it. "Everyone would be happier if I were just dead."

Every word is driving a thousand knives into Thranduil's heart, the pain is unbearable, and he shouts, "Stop saying those things!

Legolas looks at him with his teary, wide blue eyes, and Thranduil sobs. He doesn't just see the broken twenty-three year old in those eyes.

He sees his screaming one year old, begging with his cries to be carried. He sees his five year old, bouncing around happily and getting ready for his first day of school. He sees his ten year old, who constantly laughs and brings joy into everyone's lives. He sees his fifteen year old, a selfless, sweet boy with only the intentions of helping others. 

He sees all of the past happiness and pain Legolas had caused, sees the achievements he won and those he lost.

He sees all of Legolas ' life as if it's spread out like a map, like the night sky filled with stars.

And that only breaks his heart more.

"Legolas," is all Thranduil can whisper, before he puts his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. He begins sobbing.

Because it's not just a struggling, twenty-three year old waiter who tried to commit suicide.

It's Thranduil's small baby, with wide eyes and an even wider smile, with a sweet giggle and an adorable behavior; it's the thought that his child tried to kill himself that is mentally and physically the most painful thing he ever felt. A cold feeling winds up in his chest, squeezing his heart in a painful twist, and he gasps as if he's trying to breathe.

Legolas quietly stares at Thranduil, agony making his vision blurry and his voice wavering.

"Don't you see, Ada?" he says softly. "I've hurt you, and I'm hurting you now."

A part of him wishes he could pull his father into his arms, wishes he could caress all the hurt he caused away.

"I just want you to be happy," Legolas whispers, pained at the sight of his broken father. "You can't be happy when I'm around.."

"How could I not be happy, tithen-las, if you are my happiness?"

He doesn't respond, because he's too afraid to hope when hope was the very thing that had forsaken him many times.

"How could I be happy if the skies weren't blue, if the leaves weren't alive and green, if the birds ceased their singing?" Thranduil inquires softly, turning his head upwards in the slightest degree to look into Legolas' eyes, drops of emotion still spilling over. "Because that is what you are, my love. You are what makes everything right, everything beautiful and golden, at least in my world."

"Don't..don't say that," Legolas says brokenly, because he knows that it's not true.

He fights the urge to shut his eyes tightly when he begins hearing the voices again; the soft, but sharp venomous whispers of self-hatred filling every crevice of his mind.

"How could I if it wasn't the truth?" Thranduil's deep, sorrowful voice continues.

And at that moment, he wants nothing more than to come completely clean, tell Legolas of his past and their lost history, of his fading immortality but his determination to make things right with his son before he is completely unwoven out of the fabric of existence.

But he knows he can't, not when Legolas is in such a fragile and delicate mind space.

He looks down at his hands when he feels another wave of pain in his heart roll over him like the sea, pulls a tissue out of his pocket and tries to wipe away the betraying drops of emotion sliding down his face.

He doesn't see the war being waged in Legolas' mind, the frustrated, saddened, angry, pained tears starting to spill over.

He hates that his father still loves him so deeply and obviously, he hates that he doesn't understand why Thranduil is still trying so hard to get back something that no longer has worth.

When he speaks up, voice slightly broken and full of more emotion than earlier, it's in hopes that he can dissuade Thranduil from his course, protect him from the hurt he can see just over the horizon if they come together again. 

"You don't want me, Adar." It's killing him to say each and every word, and he looks down at his lap, afraid that his real feelings will shine through his eyes if he risks looking at his father. "If you did, you'd be wishing for a someone, broken and scarred permanently from the world to the point of being reduced to some...some empty, soul-less waste of space." 

He feels Thranduil's cold fingers grasp his chin tightly, forcing him to look up with a sudden jerk.

Thranduil's piercing, blue eyes are blazing, full of anger and rage, well-hidden grief making his eyes glassy with tears. 

"You're not--"

"I can't change who I am, Ada!" Legolas cries, desperate to just end the connection between them and cut off any chances at having their hearts destroyed again in the future. He jerks his chin away from his father's grasp as if it burns, pulling away as much as he can from Thranduil.

It pains him to see the hurt on the author's face, the hurt he caused by his actions, but he can't stop. "I'm worthless, do you hear me?!? I'm nothing; unworthy of anyone and everyone's love, much less yours!"

He feels like he's gone stark mad, as if he's been pushed past the point of insanity. Thranduil still stares at him hard, a steel will of determination apparent in his eyes.

"You shouldn't have to deal with someone as...as stupid as me!" he continues, throat fighting to close tightly from the pain that all of this, this whole situation, is causing him. "You've dealt with my shit for years, and there's no way in hell that I'm letting you continue!"

Legolas sits back against the pillows, wiping his teary face against his shoulder quickly, almost embarrassed.

Something softens visibly in Thranduil's face at his son's words, a realization almost snapping in his mind.

For the first time, he realizes what Legolas was really trying to do from the very start:

Spare them both from pain.

Legolas' name is all Thranduil can breathe before he cups his son's face in his hands with sudden, rough movements. The young man looks at him with wide, shocked eyes, and that's the last thing the author sees before he presses his mouth to his child's in a desperate kiss.

He doesn't know if he's trying to prevent more hurtful lies from spilling out of Legolas' mouth, he doesn't know if he's just trying to find comfort in the fact that his son is still alive and breathing.

The moment is sudden and strange, heart-wrenching but all the more beautiful. 

In those short, few seconds, Thranduil and Legolas both feel complete. Because, although their hearts are still broken, they feel the shards being picked up by one another; strangely feeling as if they'd found paradise, a small well of triumph and happiness and reflection of past mistakes and failures coloring the canvas of their souls and feelings.

It's magical misery, orderly chaos, and painful pleasure.

When Legolas moans softly, it seems to be his cue to pull away, and he does, his son's face still between his hands.

It takes a moment before he opens his eyes, smiling slightly when he sees Legolas' own ones are still closed, his dark eyelashes gently fluttering against his cheeks for a moment.

When he opens them, much of the pain is clearly gone, only casting a cloud of murkiness over his clear crystal-like eyes.

"Ada," he whispers, their mouths still so close to one another that Thranduil can feel their breaths mingling. "Ada, please."

And he's tugging at his bonded arms, each movement becoming more forceful, obviously trying to free himself. 

Thranduil's hesitant, as he doesn't know what to expect if he unties his child, but then there is an almost trapped sorrow hidden in Legolas' pleading eyes, and, a moment of contemplation passing, he relents, silently unbinding his arms.

For a moment, an unsettled feeling pools in his stomach, the anxiety at the possibility of Legolas' thrashing out making his mind a bit irrational for a short while.

But the second his son is free, the younger wraps his father in a tight hug, trembling as tears threaten to begin streaking his face once more.

He whispers his thanks, and Thranduil quietly holds him.

Everything is still ruined, the whole situation is still polluted with dark feelings and intentions, hidden secrets and self-hatred.

But for Thranduil to have his love, alive and still breathing in his arms....

For now, it's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope that made up for the crappy things that's been going on between them :/
> 
> If you liked (or hated) please leave a comment! I'll definitely respond!
> 
> I apologize for any grammatical errors or if you found this chapter a little bumpy. Please tell me if you did so and it'll help improve my writing!
> 
> Until next week! ❤️❤️❤️


	6. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There comes a time when all scars, all imperfect beauty comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! ^.^
> 
> Sorry this is a bit late... I've just been so busy with finals! >.

It's the morning a week after Thranduil brought his love home; and the spring rain patters against the large windows softly, gray, fluffy clouds obscuring the warm sun.

It's a bit darker than normal, and because of this, it takes a bit longer for Thranduil to fully awake. 

His soul cries out when he realizes that it's cold in the bed, that Legolas is nowhere in sight.

He bolts upright, a familiar panic blossoming in his chest quickly, and he looks around the large bedroom so quickly he becomes dizzy.

A breath of relief is immediately tumbling out of his lips when he sees the bathroom light across the room, pouring through the small cracks in the door. 

It takes a minute before he gets up, still trying to calm his erratically beating heart. 

He knows that it's irrational to be afraid of the thought of Legolas leaving, but he can't help it.

Not after what it's done to the both of them.

Quietly, he pads over to the bathroom. He absently wonders why Legolas is up so early, having woken up beside his love for every single day since they returned. 

He's about to knock when it suddenly hits him, and he remembers what day it is.

The doctors specifically stated to change Legolas' bandages on that very day. This meant that he would be seeing Legolas wounds for the first time, and the thought made his stomach flip nervously, much to his disdain.

He hates uncertainty, anxiety. But he can never shake himself of those feelings whenever he is with his only child, it seems.

Feelings aside, it all makes sense, makes him understand why Legolas is up earlier than normal and hidden away in the bathroom.

He lifts his hand to knock again, hesitating, before swallowing and tapping the door with his knuckles gently.

Even those soft sounds seem loud in his ears compared to the gentle falling of the rain.

He hears a sniffle, and his heart breaks.

"Baby, open up," he says softly, laying his open hand against the door almost imploringly.

"No," Legolas refuses, voice as fragile but firm as the rain. There's another sniffle, and he whispers in such a soft tone that Thranduil is sure he wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't the heightened sense of hearing, "Please go away, Adar."

"I'm not leaving you," Thranduil states firmly, a moment passing before his tone softens. "You know we made a promise, darling.. I wouldn't leave you, and you wouldn't leave me."

It's silent for a few minutes, and only the sound of nature's tears hitting the glass and the darkness of the clouds fill Thranduil's soul for those short moments.

"It's disgusting," Legolas finally whispers, and the author immediately knows what he's talking about. "They're all so disgusting."

"Sweetheart, let me in," Thranduil murmurs, a pleading quality bleeding into his voice. "Please."

"I can't." And Legolas sounds so torn, so miserable. "You shouldn't have to deal with this."

"But you're my darling," Thranduil argues, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. "I want to take care of you."

There's silence, and Thranduil sighs,

"Please, baby. Let me in..."

He hears soft, light feet gently connect with the bathroom tiles, and the doorknob turns slowly. When the dark mahogany door opens, Thranduil takes in the sight of a tear-stained angelic face, puffy eyes and a small, red nose.

It breaks his heart, but he maintains a firm and nearly indifferent face, and walks into the bathroom when the door is fully opened.

He's careful not to grab Legolas' wrist though, knowing of the possibility that his cuts may still very well be slightly open.

Hand in hand, he gently pulls his love to sit on the toilet seat cover, quietly taking a moment before kneeling in front of his child (adult, he should say, but after living thousands of years, everyone's age is like that of a mere baby compared to his).

Legolas is wearing an oversized green sweater (Thranduil's, of course), the neckline still all too large for him and hanging off of one shoulder. It reaches down to the middle of his thighs, hiding many of the scars. His golden hair flows over him, untamed and unbraided, but still as beautiful as ever.

Legolas is staring at the floor, face red with his melancholy and inner suffering. His hands are clenched into fists in his lap almost defensively, holding tightly onto the ends of the sleeves of his sweater in vain hopes that Thranduil won't see his scars.

Thranduil thinks for a moment, before his larger hand covers his son's slimmer one, other one coming up to gently cup his chin and tilt it upwards.

The moment that their identical blue eyes meet is a bit sorrowful and sweet all at once, the sudden trust and submission flooding into his wide, blue eyes making Thranduil's heart glow and melt with the love for his beautiful child.

"Trust me," Thranduil murmurs, smiling a bit when Legolas' grip on his sleeves loosens.

He tries to keep his face neutral, but his stomach is turning with anxiety, he's afraid of what he'll see, knows that it will hurt his heart.

Thranduil registers the bloodied bandages in the trash can to his left, and it's a bit comforting knowing that he doesn't have to risk accidentally ripping Legolas' cuts open if he tries to pull the white cloth off of his arms when all he has left to do is bandage them up again.

He quietly grasps the ends of Legolas' dark green sweater, humming soothingly when his love lets out a whimper.

Gently and wordlessly, he takes a deep breath, trying to quell the nervousness pooling in his stomach, and slowly, carefully, begins folding his sleeves up.

He first sees the deep purple cuts, jagged, long, and crooked. He feels his heart bruise as he takes in the sight of the small, thin pink scars, underlying the darker, deeper ones in parallel lines.

He vaguely hears Legolas mumble something like, "They're so disgusting," but he can't bring himself to soothe Legolas, not when his heart is in his throat.

He stares at the marks for what seems like centuries, some fresh, some looking as if they'd been there for years but were ripped open again from time to time.

He can almost see every tear spilt, every ounce of self-hatred poured into Legolas' wounds and discoloring his skin.

It's only until Thranduil is aware that his love is crying that he tears his eyes away from Legolas' arms, stands and takes action.

The author takes a small towel from one of the cabinet drawers, running it under warm water. Squeezing most of the liquid out, he moves back to his child.

He's delicate as he picks up one of the younger's wrist again, almost cradling it in his large, battle-roughened hands.

Legolas' sniffles are interrupted with a hiss as his father gently dabs the scars and stitched-up cuts alike, and Thranduil apologizes softly.

"It's okay, my love," he whispers. "It'll be over soon."

Cleansing have been done, Thranduil takes the bandages, quietly and efficiently begins wrapping up his arms. 

It's over before he knows it, and he's moving, a sick feeling pooling in his stomach, all too uneager to see what Legolas has done to his legs. He starting to lift legolas' oversized sweater when slender hands touch his shoulders.

"Ada--"

"Shh, tithen-las..."

Panic suddenly fills the voice, a sharp edge of desperation, and Legolas grasps his hands as tightly as he can,

"No, Ada!" His blue eyes are wide, terrified, filled with tears. "Please don't!"

Thranduil narrows his eyes, stomach turning. "What have you done?"

Before his love can formulate an answer, he pulls his hands away from Legolas' grip, quickly grabbing the hem of his sweatshirt and yanking it up.

He vaguely hears Legolas begin sobbing in shame and humiliation and fear, as he stares at his once perfect milky white thighs.

They are now all covered in scars, similar like to the ones on his arms. But there are words carved in as well, some slightly faded while others are still clear and readable.

Words, words like 'stupid, ugly, worthless, useless', make Thranduil choke, nearly make him become sick all over the bathroom floor. The sudden pain that sets his heart and soul aflame burns him alive, almost makes him cry out.

Only then does he suddenly realize what a failure he is, as both a father and a protector. It hurts, and tears prickle in his blue eyes as he moves back unsteadily and doubles over.

Legolas is crying louder, he realizes, arms are wrapped around his back and a cheek is pressed against his head. He hears apologies pouring from his baby's lips, and he feels sick.

It should be him apologizing.

Another glance at Legolas' thighs suddenly prove to be too much for his already weak heart to handle, and he feels his control, his emotions slip through his fingers like water.

He feels the skin burning away, the flesh almost melting off his face, and he cries out softly at the pain, never having really grown used to it. The room is filled with the stench of burning flesh, and Thranduil feels the pain extend all the way down his chest to his arm.

Through one, blurry eye, he sees Legolas look at him, pull back, eyes wide and face filled with horror.

Immediately, Thranduil stands up at a dizzying fast rate, bolts out of the bathroom. He's so quick that Legolas doesn't see him disappear to the outside of the balcony, hiding behind the wall.

It's stupid, cowardly, and he knows. But he can't bear to see his love look upon him with revulsion and disgust.

His heart cries out when he hears Legolas' increasingly loud cries for his father, hears his frantic feet run around in search for him.

He'll go to him, he thinks. Just after he gets a reign on his feelings, then he'll be able to hide his scar once more.

He stays in the pouring rain for hours, feeling the drops from the heavens mingle with his bitter tears. He watches the cars drive around the city, red lights glowing in the gloominess and reflecting off the wet streets. They disappear when they are out of sight, and this is one of the times Thranduil wishes he could disappear too.

Eventually, Legolas' cries die down, and although Thranduil tries to stop himself, he can't help it if he wants to take a small peek.

He sees Legolas on their bed, curled up in a ball and crying.

It breaks his heart, and he curses anything and everything that brought them to this situation.

Another hour passes, and Thranduil sighs as he feels the illusion washing over him once more.

In a puddle, he sees that his scar is mostly hidden again, only a few spots of raw flesh showing.

It's as close as to perfect as he is going to get, and he swallows the lump in his throat. 

He opens the balcony door silently and walks over to stand beside the bed, shaking and wet. Legolas doesn't seem to notice, still crying into the bedding heartbrokenly.

Thranduil decides it won't be ideal if he enters the bed still dripping wet and a few seconds from hypothermia, so he stealthily dashes over to the bathroom, grabs his towel and dries himself off as much as possible.

Shame burns him from the inside, shame that came from leaving Legolas alone when he still needed his father's love, and it hurts to think that he had a large part to play in the angst Legolas is experiencing.

It's that shame that makes him move quickly, and he's back next to the bed only a few seconds later, hair still full of water and skin a bit damp and blue.

This time, Legolas notices his presence, his head jerking up from the bed.

"Ada!" he cries, frozen for a moment before getting on his knees and crawling to Thranduil. 

The author quickly moves onto the bed and takes his son into his arms, heart clenching as his love choked on his sobs. 

"I was so worried about you!" he sniffs, face burying in Thranduil's chest as if he was a still a baby. "Where did you go?"

"It doesn't matter," Thranduil says quietly, holding him as tightly as he can. "I was wrong to leave you, and for that, I am sorry."

Legolas just sobs, and it devastates the author.

It's only until a few hours pass that Legolas grows quiet, small, little sniffles are the only thing to be heard.

The father just strokes his back soothingly and caresses his soft hair, waiting until the younger is able to find his words again.

He doesn't though, only looks up with teary eyes. They hold one another's eye contact for a few moments, before Legolas' hesitant hand comes up, gently touching Thranduil's scarred cheek.

He stares questioningly when the older flinches at the touch, his eyes speaking louder than his words ever could.

But the impending question still comes, feelings of chaotic anxiety turning in Thranduil's stomach.

"Where did you get this?"

It's then that Thranduil takes a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried hard, everyone...
> 
> I feel that I am either experiencing a bit of a writer's block; or I'm just extremely unmovitated to write fanfic like I was before... It makes me a bit sad, to be honest..
> 
> If any of you have some advice, or just some encouragement, it'd be greatly appreciated!
> 
> I apologize if there are any grammatical or spelling errors. please tell me if there are any and I'll try to have it fixed! Thanks!!
> 
> Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated! <3 <3 <3


	7. Just Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Among the confusion and pain that comes with learning about Thranduil's history, Legolas finds himself still struggling with an addiction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everybody for all the support on the last chapter! I feel it's slowly helping me along and clearing my mind of any doubts I had with finishing this story!!!
> 
> So thank you, from the bottom of my heart!!! <3 <3 <3

Thranduil wakes.

It's still raining outside, the city still dark and wet.

He had fallen asleep after having spent most of the day (really most of the week) explaining his intricate..their intricate, lost history to his son.

Legolas was suspicious for the first few days, reincarnation and places that seemed to be of another world puzzling and confusing him. Thranduil felt the hope that his son would believe him fade for a long while. It hurt him deeply, but the wound began to mend when he saw the understanding and trust shine brighter in Legolas' deep, blue eyes with each passing day.

Because of his age, it was not unnormal for him to sleep longer than humans normally did each day, explaining his state of the present.

He's alone on the couch, clinging onto a pillow, much to his contempt, in replace of his son. He remembers falling asleep with his child, and he shivers, sits up, looks across to the kitchen where he hears faint gurgling, and, low and behold, there's his darling, over the stove and mixing a some sort of dish in a pot.

"Legolas," he says in what definitely is not a whine, "come back and lie with me."

Legolas just turns his head to look at his father, throwing a small smile his way. 

It's then that he realizes that Legolas is wearing those blasted, human contraptions called earphones...or headphones (or something), and he frowns, motioning for his son to take them off.

Obedient as always, Legolas slides them off the sides of his head and onto his neck, not once stopping his stirring motions, smiling in an all-too sweet way.

It almost looks fake, and Thranduil feels his heart clench. But he immediately scolds himself in his mind.

It probably isn't.

Legolas is happy enough to smile.

...right?

"Yes?"

"Ada misses you and he's cold," Thranduil sighs, leaning the side of his face against the backboard of the sofa.

"Get a blanket," Legolas says in a non-committal way with a shrug, turning back to the pot. 

"Darling..." he groans, and vaguely hears Legolas let out a dramatic sigh. His thick eyebrows furrow, and he glares at the back of Legolas' head. 

Legolas doesn't say anything else, only puts a lid on the pot and lets the broth simmer. He quietly walks over to Thranduil, sitting on the edge of the sofa with little hesitation. He's solemn again, pretty mouth set in a grim line as he stares at his father.

Thranduil's arms come round his waist, and curls around his son in an almost cat-like manner. The cold air about them, spring hanging on tightly to the last bit of chilly winter, makes the author shiver, and the warmth emitting from Legolas' lithe body is most satisfactory.

"Ada," Legolas sighs, voice low and soft. He turns around so he and Thranduil are chest to chest, leaning down against the author and staring into his face. It only takes a little bit before he's carding his long fingers through Thranduil's silver blonde strands, their eyes still locked.

The feel of someone's hands gently sending jolts of pleasure through his scalp makes him breathe out a pleasurable sigh, and he closes his eyes.

"Ada?"

"Yes, my love?"

"Can.." There's a bit of a pause, where Legolas' fingers stop, and he clears his throat. Thranduil doesn't open his eyes, just waits patiently.

But he already knows what his love is going to ask.

He saw the question in his face while he was asking about the past, hears it slipping through his lips without it really coming.

And he senses that Legolas is a bit afraid, extremely tentative. They both know that it's a delicate subject; if handled wrongly, it could spell disaster for the two of them.

But Thranduil is ready, ready to take that jump into the unknown if it means that he can jump with his son.

So, instead of waiting for Legolas to find the courage to ask, he silently lets go of control, of all the illusions and magic.

It hurts though.

But he keeps going, knowing fully well that his child is looking at him, eyes wide.

It's only until his scar is completely revealed, after all the flesh has melted away like butter once more and left gaping and barely holding together, that he opens his eyes, looks at Legolas through both a clear eye and a blurry, milky one.

Legolas is silent, mouth shut tight. One hand, gentle and tentative, comes to rest on his perfect, pale cheek, while the other touches the burned flesh with light touches.

Thranduil's shuts his eyes tightly, swallows the whimper of pain threatening to escape from his lips.

"Oh Ada," Legolas says softly, and through the burning pain of the younger blonde's gentle touches, Thranduil feels his sweet, cool lips press against his.

He barely realizes when Legolas pulls away to breathe. 

"How could you hide this from me?" he says softly, a sad tinge bleeding into his voice.

"It's..." Thranduil can't even hope to begin to explain to even the most vain of humans why physical alterations were often so devastating to Elves; how could they understand, that they would carry those disfiguring scars until the end of time?

He opens his eyes, looks at his child, and he feels the burn of tears in both of them. Legolas' pretty face is so sympathetic and soft, his heart is strangely open on his sleeve even after being hurt so many times.

It takes a while for the both of them to recover their voices, the soul-crushing emotions washing over them with the strength and power of the ocean.

In the meantime, Thranduil sees the love shining in Legolas' eyes, and, needless to say, it confuses him to no end. He feels a bit afraid, because he doesn't understand, doesn't understand why Legolas is still looking at him as if he was the only person in the world, as if he was the most enchanting and breathtaking creature alive.

It hurts too much to believe that Legolas is really feeling those things that the author sees in his eyes, so he looks away, chin wobbling as he tries not to cry.

He used to be so emotionless, so blank, showing nothing but anger or contempt.

'Gods, what has happened to me?' he wonders.

"Ada, look at me," Legolas says softly, gently touching Thranduil's sharp chin.

"You could leave if you want," Thranduil states suddenly, voice not as strong as he'd like it to be. Although his son has guided his face gently to face him in hopes of their eyes meeting, Thranduil keeps his own piercing orbs lowered. "I know I'm a horror to look at; you don't have to pretend."

He feels Legolas' soft lips brush his cheek, and he looks up finally. 

"You're still so beautiful...don't you know that, my love?" Legolas murmurs, kissing dangerously close to Thranduil's burnt-off flesh. 

"But--"

"Ada," the younger sighs, pulling away and cupping the perfect, untouched side of Thranduil's face. He sees no lies, no deceit in Legolas' eyes. There's no reason not to believe him.

But then again, it's not like he did see any of the previous mentioned things in his son's eyes when Legolas was secretly plotting to leave five years ago.

"We all have scars. We all have stories," Legolas whispers, leaning down to kiss Thranduil again.

It tastes bitter.

••••••

They still have nightmares.

It wasn't rare for Legolas to wake up screaming, bathed in cold sweat and pale as a sheet. 

Thranduil would wake up beside him, heart broken at the sight of his shaking and sobbing child. He'd hold him for hours on end if it meant he would be able to soothe his baby's pain.

They both know what he sees in his dreams.

Memories, memories of leaving and soul-crushing despair, are still fresh in both of their minds, and it haunts them through the pitch black nights, tainting their dreams and what should be their happiness.

••••••

It was the most maddening thing.

The razor laid on the shelf innocently, almost taunting him.

Legolas' fingers twitch every so often as he stares at the sharp metal, bottom lip trembling.

He doesn't understand why he still feels the need, why he still desires the burning pain of pulling a blade across his body. 

The wish to see his blood seep from him like his happiness does so easily is strong, overwhelming him like a hurricane.

He's tried so hard to resist it though; he knows how upset Thranduil becomes when he hurts himself.

And he doesn't want to upset his father.

So he waits.

•••••

It's only a few days later when Legolas' mind decides he's heard enough, heard enough of what became the remains of Thranduil's broken life. He excuses himself quietly, leaves Thranduil and his scars and his secrets in the living room, locks himself in the bathroom and places his hands on the counter to steady himself. He begins to break, silent tears flowing down his pale cheeks.

It wounds his heart and soul to see and hear how much Thranduil has suffered, how many things he had to go through for the past thousands of years. 

And for what?

He doesn't know.

But remembering of his father's mentioning of the great love he had for his wife in the first or second age, he figures that Thranduil had stayed to wait for her to be reincarnated.

His father is still so obviously taking her careless and stupid actions hard; he's seen how thin Thranduil has become, how weak and tired he is all the time, with barely the strength to open his eyes sometimes, much less to eat.

It breaks his heart, because he knows what his mother has become, his mother who once sounded endearing and lovely, the perfect example of a pure maiden.

He realizes it.

That has to be what is destroying his father.

His hands try to dig into the marble counter, and his throat threatens to emit a sound that will definitely have his father standing outside of the bathroom and pounding on the door in three seconds.

Anger and hate burn in him, the emotions directed to his stupid mother. Why couldn't she treat Thranduil the way she should, with deep, impassible, unconditional love? Why was she so insensitive as to hurt him and leave him the way she did?

As he wonders how anyone could be so cruel, his thoughts take a sudden, unexpected turn, and now, he's analyzing himself.

He begins asking the same questions, only putting himself in the equation. His soul hurts, and his lips begin trembling as he tries to keep the tears at bay.

He knows that Thranduil had bade him to block those kind of thoughts out, not let any self hate control him any longer.

But it's hard to control his feelings, because he feels the despair and loneliness in Thranduil's heart as if the pain was his own, and he shakes.

He recalls to his mind of his own past actions, though unknown to him, they are still fresh within his father's mind. He's heard of how he disobeyed the king, abandoned his post to join a suicide mission. Thranduil tells him (reluctantly and after much coaxing from his son) of how Legolas returned after the War of the Ring, and of how they remained aloof despite Thranduil's deep longing for the closeness he once had with his son. It completely broke his heart when the author told him that he had left the earth with his friend, sailed to some strange and forgotten Heaven without him.

Without his father.

He sobs, but places his hand tightly over his mouth to muffle it. 

He feels like a failure; not only did he cause Thranduil so much pain in this life, but also the last.

He could see it, the hurt in Thranduil's eyes as his father recounted the tale of his past life to him, and a familiar feeling rises from the depths of his heart, threatening to override and take control of everything.

He sees the blade out of the corner of his eye.

'Just once,' he thinks to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Please don't kill me..
> 
> Leave a review and kudos instead? *hopeful smile*
> 
> Please?
> 
> It helps a lot!!
> 
> But, you know if you don't have time..it's okay.
> 
> *sad sniffle*
> 
> Just kidding! Do what you want with your life! :)
> 
> (Sorry for messing with your feelings >.


	8. Sink of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lying to Thranduil leaves Legolas loaded with reproach and guilt. Hoping to remove these overwhelming feelings, he decides to attempt to make his father happier in the only way he thinks possible.
> 
> Even if it means he'll have to come into contact with the witch of a mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even...  
> The crisis is happening again.  
> I apologize for the title, misspellings, grammatical errors, and this whole thing in general.
> 
> *face palm*
> 
> Happy readings???

"Legolas?"

It's the fourth time Thranduil knocked, and the suspicion and worry has been growing in his voice in an extremely fast rate.

"Fuck," Legolas whispers, holding the towel against his arms as he curses, frantic and slightly panicking. His little cutting session got a bit out of control, he had to admit, and the slits were a bit deeper than expected, the pain overwhelming but soothing after being so long away from it.

But he should've kept track on the time, remembered that Thranduil was waiting for him when he said he was only going to be gone for a little.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Legolas curses under his breath, pulling out the bandages and wrapping his arms hastily. He sees the blood beginning to seep through the white, although the material he's using is thick, and he lets out another colorful word, only a bit louder this time.

"Legolas, please open the door, darling," Thranduil says outside, and he hears he door knob rattle a little.

"Daddy, I'm coming out!" he squeaks, before flinching when he remembers that he never, ever called his father that. Hopefully it doesn't give away his current berserk and distraught state of self.

There's a pause, and Legolas is grateful as he hastily wipes up the blood from the floor and washes it the drops of crimson down the sink.

He flushes his old bandages down the toilet (thankfully, it's been a rather indestructible piece of porcelain that lasted throughout the years), and rinses his hands quickly, dripping water everywhere with his quick, jerky movements as he looks for a towel.

"Tithen-las--"

Screw a towel, Legolas decides and jerks the door open, greeted by a wide-eyed, startled author. The worry in his eyes are clear, and with Legolas deciding that it wouldn't be good if Thranduil began asking questions, grabs his shirt in his hands tightly and pulls him toward himself, crashing their lips together in a violent kiss

It kinda gets a bit out of control after that, the threads which weave together the blanket of sanity fraying a little as Legolas kisses his father as if his life depends on it.

Suddenly, as if waking from a dream, the younger finds himself pressed flush against the author, who is currently pinned to the wall due to his rather violent ministrations, his own lips seeming as if they are trying to devour Thranduil's.

He pulls away quickly, gasping for breath. He looks at Thranduil with wide eyes, and is met with a similar look.

"Umm...oh.." He pauses, suddenly aware of his hands that are winded in Thranduil's soft, navy shirt. He immediately lets it go, remembering of his father's extreme displeasure at the presence of wrinkles anywhere on his clothes. Hoping the nervousness and franticness built up from the earlier moments do not bleed into his voice, he tries speaking again, failing miserably. 

"H-hey, Ada!" he squeaks, a moment passing as he processes what he just said. He clenches his eyes tightly in self-abrasion. 

"...hello."

There's a slightly awkward silence that suffocates both of them, Legolas becoming more interested in looking at his shoes and Thranduil staring straight at him for an uncomfortable amount of time.

Finally, Thranduil speaks.

Even though it's not something Legolas exactly wants to hear.

"What were you doing?"

"I.." Legolas pauses, before he blanks out. He looks down at the floor, his lips pressing tightly together as he tries to think of something to say; but Thranduil grasps his chin in his slender fingers, tilting his head to look up at him. He vaguely registers Thranduil's hand that gently touches his slim waist.

Thranduil's icy eyes narrow dangerously as they look at what seems to be between his neck and the top of his chest. The fingers grasping Legolas' chin trails downwards, stopping at his sharp collarbone.

Legolas flinches internally as he feels his father's thumb rub against the sharp, protruding bone, praying to the high heavens that Thranduil doesn't see what he thinks he sees.

"What is this?" the author inquires, pulling up his hand and gazing intently at the red-smudged thumb, voice low and dark.

"Ink," he lies as smoothly as possible, knowing fully well that that is definitely not what it is, and earning a sharp look from his father.

They hold one another's gaze for a long while. It takes a few minutes for Thranduil's eyes to soften, a look of trust flooding into the crystal-like orbs.

It breaks Legolas' heart, to know that he had lied to someone who was so obviously ready to trust him.

"Come, darling, you should eat," Thranduil says finally, voice having lost all sharpness. 

A smile is forced into his pale, blue-tinged lips, and it's clear that Thranduil is trying, trying to believe that his child wasn't still doing what he once did.

It's while they're eating that it's silent. It seems to drown Legolas in his own guilt, and he swallows hard, trying to distract himself.

He wants to burst into tears, from the relief that comes in the form of bandages pressing against fresh cuts and sharp pain, or from the voices in his head, though soft and barely audible, that speak to him, choke him with regret.

Lying to Thranduil is the last thing he wanted to do, and yet it seemed as if it was the only course of action at the time.

He can't help but feel so helpless, so disturbed; and he doesn't know if the wars being waged in his soul shows on his face, but strangely and coincidentally, Thranduil reaches out, takes his son's shaking hand in his own as if he's trying to prevent the younger from slipping down the slope of his own self-remorse and self-hate.

The younger blonde looks at his father's face, deflating when he sees Thranduil's gaze averted to the skyline in the large window beside them. He sees the all-too-familiar sadness painted in the author's otherwise gorgeous face, and frowns.

Perhaps he had failed in being worthy of his father's trust; the least he could do was attempt to make him happy again. 

Even if it meant he'd have to come into contact with that witch of a woman known as his mother.

"Ada," Legolas says softly, turning his hand upwards so that he could grasp Thranduil's hand back. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Thranduil, ever so generous with his son, turns away from the brilliant sunset to look at his plain child, clearly dull in comparison with the orange sun and pastel pink skies (at least in Legolas' own mind), and smiles gently.

"It's...it's about my...mom."

Legolas almost sees the mask slip from the author's face.

"Oh..." Thranduil says softly, pausing. 

Legolas frowns, sensing the deep sadness in his beloved father again.

What he doesn't sense is that they share the same melancholy of guilt, that they both are loaded down with heavy burdens of regret.

"I'm sorry," Legolas murmurs, lifting their entwined hands and pressing his lips against the back of the older's. "If you're uncomfortable--"

"No, no," Thranduil shakes his head, forcing a smile onto his face. It would easily fool anyone into thinking that he was in control, completely comfortable with the situation, but unfortunately, Legolas wasn't anyone.

He flinches at the parody of up-turned lips, displaying mock happiness and content.

It was so fake.

Fake, fake, fake, fake--

"Baby?"

The simple word halts Legolas' train of thought, makes him nearly startle visibly. Thranduil's blue, crystal eyes are searching him, trying to detect a reason for his mental absence.

"Have...have you talked to-to my mom lately?"

Thranduil looks out the window again, face blank.

And Legolas just sits there, blinking and anxiously waiting for an answer.

"A month or two ago," he finally answers softly.

"About...?" 'What could they have possibly talked about so recently ago?' Legolas wonders.

Thranduil fixes him with a gentle yet firm look, biting his bottom lip unconsciously before quietly answering, "You."

The younger tilts his head to the side a bit, wondering.

Then, the pain, blood, and pills flash in his mind, and he remembers.

"O-oh..." He looks down, embarrassed. He should've guessed that his father would call his mother, especially after the type of stunt Legolas pulled. The next question is said softly and hesitantly. "How...how'd she take it?"

"She seemed upset, of course," Thranduil notes, a gentle smile crossing his face. "She wanted to come, but unfortunately, she was in Japan at the time."

The last bit of information takes Legolas back. "Wait, what? Japan?"

Thranduil looks at him, confusion in his cerulean eyes. He looks down after a while, gaze setting upon Legolas' hand.

The younger feels himself seize up in fear suddenly, wanting nothing more than to rip his hand away from his father's at that moment. One swift movement of Thranduil jerking up his sleeve could be the end for the younger, he knew fully well that the bandages were probably already soaken through with blood.

How easy it would be, to lose his father's trust and love again.

He feels himself begin to shake.

"Darling," Thranduil whispers lowly when he notices. "What troubles you?"

"Nothing, Ada," he croaks, his own voice grating his ears, before he clears his throat, and tries to push the troubles back into the far corners of his mind. "So..so why's mom in Japan?"

Thranduil looks suspicious, and the younger can already feel himself melting under his piercing gaze.

"She's picked up modeling again, 'Las," his father sighs after a short while.

"Modeling?"

Thranduil becomes more confused; Legolas knows, but it barely shows on his face. 

"You didn't know she that was her profession before you were born?"

Legolas pauses, all of the new information all but assaulting his brain.

Of course it would make sense that his mother was a model, with sandy blonde hair and green eyes, tall and even a bit beautiful in Legolas' eyes, it would make less sense if she wasn't cashing in on her looks.

"Well," he starts, voice a bit wary as he looks out at the city, "I guess we never really talk about...anything."

"When was the last time you heard from her?" Thranduil inquires, genuinely interested.

"A few years ago," Legolas shrugs. "I tried calling her a few times last two years but she never really picks up anymore."

He doesn't see the author's jaw clench tightly, his icy eyes narrow.

"Is she still in Japan?"

"No," Thranduil sighs after a moment passes. "She came back a few days ago."

"Canada?"

His father exhales. "New York."

Legolas' eyes grow wide, and he turns his head so sharply it might have snapped off. "New York?"

Thranduil nods. "She moved back two years ago."

'Well, that should make things easier,' Legolas thinks, a dull smile on his lips. 

He sees Thranduil stand up, watches him take their (or more accurately, his) finished plates, paces over to the sink and puts them in.

It's while his father rolls up his sleeves, exposing his thin arms to the strangely cold spring air, that Legolas stands, moves over to where Thranduil is.

He presses his chest against Thranduil's back silently, winds his arms around the author's slim waist.

It's when he brushes his hands against Thranduil's sharp ribs that he pauses. He couldn't help but notice that his father had gotten worryingly thin over the past half-decade, and it stabs Legolas in the heart whenever he watches Thranduil eat only a couple of spoonfuls before discarding the rest,

"Ada, you've barely eaten," he murmurs against the older's shoulder blade, closing his eyes.

"Mmm..." The vibrations of Thranduil's humming feel pleasant against Legolas' cheek, and it makes him smile if only for a few seconds.

"Why?"

"Not too hungry," Thranduil says in a 'we're done with this conversation' type of way; but it's barely sharp, his tone faraway from being harsh. 

Never is it cruel or severe when he speaks to Legolas now; always gentle, loving. Firm, if it has to be, but generally, sweet and deep, rolling over the younger in pleasant waves.

"I love you, Ada." Legolas tiptoes and grabs Thranduil's golden hair, gently laying it across his shoulder and placing a kiss to his father's nape. "I love you very much," he murmurs against the smooth, pale skin.

He almost feels Thranduil's smile. 

"I love you too, darling."

•••••

There's a time, a place, and a date displayed on Legolas' screen.

•••••

It takes a few days for him to work up the courage to send it.

And when he does send it to his mother, he tells himself that it's for the best.

•••••

Legolas is straightening out his dark green t-shirt, slipping into his long-sleeved jacket when he deems himself at least a tad presentable.

He rubs the faint dark circles under his eyes after he ties his long, blonde hair into a messy bun, yawning.

It's still early in the morning, his father still asleep in their bed. He decided that it was best if he met with his mom early in the morning, knowing that the earlier he would arrive home, the better.

He leaves the bathroom after another glance over, entering the bedroom.

Seeing Thranduil's peaceful, sleeping form, half-covered in thin bedsheets, he approaches quietly, sitting on his side of the bed for a minute.

Staring at Thranduil's profile is like trying to quench an insatiable thirst for Legolas; no matter how long he looks, he never seems to get enough.

He sighs, trying to push the guilt of leaving his unknowing father to the back of his mind.

Leaning down, he presses his lips to Thranduil's temple.

"Love you, Ada. Sleep peacefully."

Later, Legolas would've wished that he knew his father was wide awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leaving kudos and comments inspire me, even if they are negative.
> 
> Please do so on your way out and watch your step!
> 
> xxx


	9. Early Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas, in an attempt to bring his mother back to his miserable father, thinking her absence causes Thranduil heartache, learns something he probably would've been better without knowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! :D
> 
> First of all, I want to apologize for not updating this fic sooner! I've been super busy, trying to figure out how to work this complicated plot line out. Now, I believe I can see where this whole story is going, and I've literally already been planning out...the end *dramatic dun dun dun DUUUNN*!!!!  
> Rest assured, there will still be more chapters ahead, (4-5, I believe) so don't be sad!  
> Secondly, I'd like to say that I've been having an amazing week! My inbox this week has been flooded with the sweetest, most inspiring reviews an author could ask for, and if you were one of those sweet friends of mine, I'd like to say from the bottom of my heart: thank you.
> 
> This has already been a long chapter note, and you've still gotta read the actual chapter, so I'll stop here!
> 
> Go forth (or..scroll down, you know XD) and read more fiction!

"Hello, love."

Legolas glares. "Don't call me that."

"Aww, only daddy can call you that?" Kate mocks, her magenta bottom lip pouting.

Legolas frowns a bit, crossing his arms. "Actually, yeah."

"Well, that's a shame," she shrugs as she rolls her eyes dramatically, pulling out her phone and staring at it intently.

Legolas sighs inwardly, looks around the park. It's still early, and they are sitting in some green chairs facing one another with an old, wooden table separating them, the same shade as the chairs. Despite the earliness of the hour, there are already a few joggers, a few people out walking their dogs.

He doesn't know exactly how he was going to accomplish what he set out to do, as his mother seems to be more dry and closed to him than usual.

Legolas' mind wanders after a few minutes of silence, and he begins wondering why and how his mother could cause an angel like his father to suffer over her absence. Obviously, he wasn't exactly one to talk, figuratively speaking, of course, but didn't his mother marry his father? Didn't she promise to love him unconditionally and until death? The thought of such a thing being dissolved by a simple decision on Kate's behalf simply irks him and spurs him on.

"Let's get down to business, shall we?" Legolas leans on his forearms across the park table.

Kate glances up from her phone, rolls her eyes. "Sheesh, you're just like your father."

"I should hope so," Legolas mumbles before clearing his throat. "Anyway--"

"Why'd you plan this little mother-son reunion anyway?" Kate cuts in, finally pocketing her cellphone and lifting a clearly shaped and plucked eyebrow, her purple lips pursing and making her lipstick wrinkle.

Legolas sighs. "If you listened to me for a minute, you probably would've known by now," he murmurs dryly before clearing his throat. "Well, as you know, I'm with my father now after five years--"

"Yeah, yeah," she says, pulling out her cellphone again when it pings. "Hurry, I have a tanning appointment in fifteen minutes, bae."

Legolas barely resists the urge to punch her in her stupid face.

"Well, I couldn't help but notice that...he's had this weird sadness, and he won't tell me why, but given the way he's been speaking, I think it's because he's lonely."

"Not my prob." She lifts her hand when her phone seems to fail bothering her, glancing at the two-inch, sparkling pink nails with her nose wrinkled. "Remind me to never get pink glitter again, love."

Legolas frowns, eyes narrowing. He tries to swallow the anger. First ignoring him, as if she's already fed up with him, and now, failing to acknowledge the problem that has been bothering him for weeks is simply infuriating. "How can you be so...so indifferent?"

Scoffing, she rolls her eyes, twirling a dirty blonde strand with her index finger and looking up to the sky as if she couldn't stand the thought of talking to a 'peasant' like himself. 

"Darling," she spits, the word sounding less endearing and more mocking, "he's probably just suffering from the fact that he hasn't been touched in...what, a decade? Or more?"

Legolas keeps his glare steady, but a blush burns on his cheeks at the implication.

"And anyways," she slumps back in her seat, a bitter smile on her lips, "it wasn't like I was the one who destroyed our relationship."

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

Her lips curl. "Let's just say he wasn't the model husband."

"Likely story," Legolas mumbles loud enough for his mother to hear, and when she glares, he smiles a tad evilly.

She's quiet for a while, sizing up her son with a dry, fed-up look. When she talks, the amount of irritation in her voice is loud and clear.

"In the beginning of you and your father's...relationship, let's say, was everything beautiful and perfect?"

Legolas doesn't answer.

"And later, everything began, mm...how shall I put it? Going downhill?"

The younger makes the mistake of showing the shocked confirmation on his face before he's able to balance the emotions back, and Kate's smiles darkly.

'It's no use to hide it,' Legolas decides, perplexed, before he clears his throat. "How'd you know?"

She rolls her green eyes exaggeratedly. "If it happened to me, I was sure it would happen to you too."

Legolas is alarmed, confused, and offended on his father's behalf all at the same time. "What do you mean?"

"Oh honey," she laughs, throwing her head back and letting out musical notes of dry and mocking joy, that honestly sounded like the cackling of a witch in Legolas' ears. When she finishes, she sighs, looking at him with a dangerous glint. "When I saw him looking at you as only a newborn, I knew."

An amused look gleams on her face and she begins laughing again as if something is hilarious.

"What are you talking about?" Legolas nearly shouts, annoyed.

She halts the conversation, a stupid, large grin concealing all the anger burning in her. "He didn't need or want a wife, but for some reason, I think he found that it would probably be hilarious if he made some poor girl fall in love with him.."

"I don't understand," Legolas admits after a while passes, a defeated look on his face.

Kate's quiet for a while, and the younger almost thinks that she's dropped the subject, but she begins talking again. 

"If someone said they loved you, would you believe them?"

Legolas narrows his eyes, suspicion clouding his mind and delaying his response. 

"Just answer the question whenever you feel like it," Kate drawls sarcastically after a minute.

"I would," Legolas replies. "I would believe them."

"Would you believe they loved you if you were walking in frigid temperatures and if, knowing of your delicacy, the gave you their coat even if it meant they might freeze to their own death?"

"Yes, of course."

"Would you believe they loved you if they looked at you like the only other person in the world, as if they understood your..." Kate pauses, lips twitching in anger and voice going a bit lower and more serious as she continues, "..your pain and knew what it meant to be alone?"

He narrows his eyes. "I--yes, I--"

"That was my mistake too, love," she interrupts, sighing, her eyes having lost all amusement and interest. They were blank and dead, reminding Legolas of his own.

It's quiet between them again, the only sounds filling the air are from mother nature, and the distant chattering of people.

Or at least, Legolas thinks he can hear the meaningless bumble of noise around him, as his mind is being overwhelmed and consumed with information.

It's a while before Legolas can even begin wrapping his head around the situation.

"So.." he begins, almost hesitant to speak, "you're saying my father...tricked you?"

Kate looks into the distance, watching the far away park fountain sparkle and shimmer in the spring air as she nods once.

"Why?"

"He was using me," she spits, looking at him sharply, eyes suddenly full of rage and contempt. 

"For what?"

She stares hard at him for a long while, the younger feeling uncomfortable under her piercing gaze. Kate laughs, but it's mirthless, only mocking.

"You really are stupid, aren't you, darling?"

Legolas flinches in anger, but he can't help but feel the tears burn in his eyes.

She sounds so much like the voices, the ones that don't sleep at night and wait only for the cover of darkness to take his mind and soul with scathing whispers of hate.

"Well, I gotta go," she's suddenly stood up, not bothering to push the chair back in as she pulls out her phone and begins check off her reflection.

Legolas can barely force the words out of his defiant throat, but he's able to (just barely) when she begins walking away.

"You didn't answer my question." His voice isn't as strong as he wishes it was, instead cracking at a few words.

His mind races, and he just wants to know, know why Thranduil would do something that sounded horribly cruel.

"Love," she rolls her eyes, pausing her pacing and looking back at him with an arched eyebrow and half-lidded eyes, "the only thing he wanted from me was my natural ability to carry his child."

Legolas feels himself tremble a bit, and it scares him.

"Now, I don't know what he intends to do with the child," she shrugs nonchalantly, taking a few steps towards him, "but, since I'm feeling generous today, I'll give you an idea."

Legolas blinks, almost afraid of what he'll hear if he doesn't run away like he wants to.

But he has to know.

She opens her mouth to say something, before her phone begins ringing. She glances at it, a wide smile growing on her face.

"I have to go," Kate says simply, a sickly sweet grin on her face. "Ciao."

With that, she begins sauntering away, eyes drawing to her phone screen as she subconsciously flaunts herself off to the park with exaggerated hip movements. 

"Wait!" Legolas shouts, running after her, pausing when she turns and looks at him with an amused, mocking glance.

"Just keep in mind, love," she begins, "your father doesn't hesitate to use people to get what he wants. And he'll pursue whatever it is for however long he wants...before carelessly throwing the poor soul he used aside."

She turns away again, throwing one last sentence to the wind over her shoulder as she begins walking again, "If he used me, don't think he won't use you for whatever he's trying to get."

••••••••

Those words ring in his mind continuously on loop for the rest of the day, bothering him and touching his soul in such a strange and disturbing way.

He's able to hide it though.

Kind of.

He sat in the park for half an hour after his mother left, contemplating all she told him and revealed. 

It's weird, knowing little of the strange and intricate histories of both of his parents, and somehow being involved in all of it.

When he returns to the penthouse, he sees Thranduil sitting quietly at the dining table, despite the fact that there's no food in front of him. He stares blankly at the city below him, eyes glazed over and long fingers tapping against the table absentmindedly as he loses himself in his own mind.

Legolas almost wants to just quietly sneak in, unnoticed, past his oblivious father, but his hopes of doing so immediately fly out the window when he forgets to catch the heavy door and it slams against the frame loudly, too loudly for Elven ears to miss.

Thranduil turns sharply, icy eyes narrowed for a moment before he realizes who it is.

"Hello, iôn-nín," he says, standing, a gentle, subtle smile appearing on his lips.

Legolas tries to get his mouth to work, but he can't seem to move his lips, much less speak. He just stares at his father with his wide, sky blue eyes, trying to believe that someone as beautiful and noble as Thranduil would never do something his mother accused him of doing.

But it just seems so likely, so in character for his father. He had seen how cold and resourceful Thranduil could be, how it didn't matter why or how he could make ends meet, but always found a way.

Even if it meant that it would hurt someone.

"Tithen-las?" Thranduil calls softly, pulling his son out of his musings, a worried shade covering his star-lit eyes.

"Sorry Ada," he finally forces out, a false smile to ease the author's worrying away on his lips. He gently places his hand on the back of Thranduil's head and stands on his tip-toes, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

"Are you alright?" Thranduil inquires, grabbing Legolas' elbows in a gentle grasp and pushing some space between them so he could look into his eyes.

"Of course," Legolas replies smoothly even though he knows the real answer./p>

The older looks him up and down a little before his dark brow furrows. There's a bit of hesitance in his voice, which is commonly uncharacteristic for someone usually so certain. "Where did you go?"

There's a bit of a pregnant pause, in which it seems as if Thranduil's trying to find the truth in his eyes and the younger is frantically trying to decide whether truth or deceit would work better in his current situation.

"To the park," Legolas says finally, swallowing and praying that his father won't question him any further.

It's a short while that lasts for eternity as the author stares hard at him, his expression neither joyful or angry, simply...thoughtful.

He says nothing, only nods in acknowledgement, releasing Legolas' elbows reluctantly and taking a step back.

In reality, it's only half a foot at the most.

But in Legolas' mind, it's miles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this was kinda short, and I'm aware that it's not very fair to you all, especially after how long you've been waiting...
> 
> So to compensate for that, I'll have another chapter coming out in a couple of days! Keep an eye out for that!
> 
> I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors, any bumpy parts or boring ones. I take full credit for the mistakes.
> 
> Please leave a review or even just some kudos! Any support really helps me to keep trudging forth!!!
> 
> Until next time! <3 xxxx


	10. Friend or Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas comes to realize that everything is not as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! :) Good morning/Good afternoon/Good evening! I hope the day is going well!
> 
> Before reading this chapter, I beg you to look at the warnings, as I do not want to cause any break downs or triggering...
> 
> Consider yourself warned (please don't sue me).

Thranduil comes to find that after Legolas' little venture to the park earlier that week, he had been acting differently, quiet and closed to his father.

Thranduil sighs, a familiar but intense pang of pain shooting through his heart. They've become more and more frequent, especially when he finds himself alone, even if it's only for a few hours.

Death is impending, seeming as if it were right around the corner, just waiting for that hour, the moment when he would fall into the darkness, never to awaken.

But still, he hasn't told Legolas.

It's not that he doesn't want to, or has no intention to tell his son; he tells himself that it will happen eventually, as he knows he can't keep the younger in the dark for long.

But already Legolas seems so..fragile and disturbed, and Thranduil is afraid, afraid of what will happen if he pushes his child too far by telling him the truth.

He can't tell him, not now.

••••••

Legolas feels the author's hand, soft and slender, press against his forehead, and he turns his face so that he's looking at his father, eyes narrowed.

He reaches up and takes the hand into his own, cradling it against his chest as he quietly inquires, "Ada, what are you doing?"

"You are certain you are not ill, iôn-nín?" 

He sighs, pressing his cheek against Thranduil's chest again, and cradling his small body into his father's side. "Yes, beloved," he murmurs in reply. "I've already answered that question yesterday, and the day before. My answer is still the same."

'I'm only worried,' Thranduil wishes he could say, but simply flattens the hand Legolas has upon his chest and laces their fingers together.

Legolas hums for a little while; it's the Sindarin lullaby Thranduil had sung for him the night before, but then he grows quiet.

When he becomes silent, he becomes distant.

Thranduil could literally feel his son's mind and soul drift farther and farther, and he tries to anchor the younger by squeezing his delicate hand tightly.

It does nothing.

This is when the older falls prey to the ever-growing loneliness, the melancholy that wraps him and suffocates him when he can't feel Legolas near.

He wishes he knew what his child often thought about, as Legolas began to drift into a silent and almost comatose state for the seventh time in the past few days.

"Legolas?"

There's no answer.

It scares Thranduil more than he can say. 

He might as well just be holding a corpse.

"Legolas." It's not a shout, but it's not quiet either, and it seems to do the trick, as Legolas suddenly jolts beside him as if being awoken, and he turns his head sharply to look at his father, eyes wide.

"What's wrong, Ada?"

Thranduil stares for a moment, a bit startled at his son's sudden awakening, but he recovers immediately. 

"Nothing," he lies. "I just...maybe we should get out of bed?"

Legolas nods, rising slowly and drawing his father up with him. He moves toward the windows, opens the blinds and lets the morning sun flood into the room.

He doesn't look into Thranduil's eyes, only directs his gaze to the floor when he asks,

"Would you like something to eat?"

Not wanting to disappoint the younger like he usually does he refuses, he nods.

The change in eye contact between them is something the author had noticed, how Legolas would avert his gaze from Thranduil's face in the light of day, only opting to look at him in the cover of night, with all of the lights turned out.

It's strange, and leaves Thranduil with an anxious and worried feeling of dread pooling in his stomach. 

At the answer, Legolas smiles faintly, closing his eyes and he leaning forward, kissing Thranduil's cheek for one short, glorious moment before standing and disappearing out the door, taking Thranduil's joy and delight with him.

He watches Legolas leave, unmoving.

•••••••

It's a week of dealing with a distant and unusually quiet yet strangely thoughtful child that he decides to try to take control of the situation.

He books tickets to Los Angeles, figuring that a small vacation might do both of them good. 

In some ways, Thranduil sees it as a sort of getaway from the personal problems they both are dealing with; maybe a little fun, a different atmosphere might help pull them both out of the state of misery and despondency they are both in.

In another way, it's Thranduil's attempt to open up his love's heart to him again with some closer bonding time.

When he informs the younger of their scheduled holiday, Legolas seems a bit confused and skeptical at first.

"Really?" he asks for the third time, his head tilted to the side and one dark eyebrow raised in suspicion.

"What's so hard to believe about going to L.A.?" Thranduil questions dryly, his lips tilting slightly as he murmurs, "I swear, sometimes you still act like you're 12, baby."

"I'm not 12!" Legolas declares loudly with a pout, making his father smile.

He can see the excitement glow in Legolas' beautiful eyes brighter and brighter with each passing second, and it warms his heart.

"You look 12," he states, a jolt of happiness stitching a small part of his heart up when Legolas giggles softly. He had forgotten how fun it was to tease the poor darling on occasion, and when he started, it was all too difficult to stop.

"I don't, Ada!" Legolas protests, schooling his face into feign annoyance, but his eyes betray him, sparkling with lost happiness.

"Fine, you look 17."

Legolas rolls his eyes, but the smile on his lips is enough to stop Thranduil from berating him.

Suddenly, in the split moment that the author looks away to glance at the window, Legolas is pressed against him, arms wound around him tightly and burying his face into his shoulder.

"Thank you, Ada," he says sincerely, his words muffled into Thranduil's light sweater. 

The older smiles, pulling away from Legolas after holding him for a little, gazing into his joyful eyes.

"I hear L.A. is nice this time of the year!" Legolas chirps happily, the excitement dancing on his sweet face.

"It is, love," Thranduil agrees, bending down a little and kissing his forehead gently. 

"Should I start packing?" 

"Well...we do leave in a few days--"

Legolas disappears at lightening speed, and Thranduil smiles, shaking his head a bit.

•••••••

"I expect you to be there, Mr. Oropherion."

"Does the appointment have to be this month?"

"You know how critical your condition is."

He sighs in irritation, and hangs up.

•••••••

"Why are we here, Ada?" Legolas inquires, his face contorted with confusion and curiosity.

"Just for a check up, love," Thranduil half-lies smoothly, gently wrapping his arm around his son's shoulders in a disguised effort for support.

The simple task of walking was becoming strenuous for his weakened body, and he often found himself leaning on Legolas for support.

Even if he seemed to notice, the younger never said anything about it, much less complained. Quietly, he'd wrap his arm around Thranduil's slim waist to accommodate him, and help carry his weight along the way.

"Are you alright?" Legolas inquires, glancing at his father with worry as he pauses just outside of the clinic.

The question seems to hit Thranduil in the face. The author can't look at Legolas when he asks that, can't see those trusting, innocent eyes. He feels horrible, evil for hiding the truth away from his oblivious child.

But he knows what's best, he tells himself. It's not as if Legolas needs to know about his condition right at that moment.

"Of course I am," he replies as convincingly as he can, though his chin wobbles slightly in sadness, and a misty blanket is thrown over his eyes.

Legolas doesn't seem to notice, and the older wonders if it's a blessing or a curse.

"I'll wait out here for you then?"

"If you'd like."

"Would it be alright with you?"

"Of course." He wouldn't want Legolas to come in with him and find out what's happening to him, anyway.

"Okay," Legolas smiles, unwinding his arm from Thranduil and grabbing the lapels of his jacket, tugging him down gently and pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

"I'll only be half an hour," Thranduil murmurs against his warm mouth, and Legolas pulls away, nodding.

Alone, Thranduil enters the clinic, and only then does Legolas allow the fake smile to slip from his lips.

He turns and begins walking down the somewhat busy street of New York, deciding that simply standing outside the clinic and waiting for Thranduil to come back out would get him kicked off the property.

He remembers a cute little bookstore he saw on the way, and figures that would be the perfect place to wait.

As he walks, he thinks, reflects on how the happiness and excitement of traveling the world once again with his beloved father almost washed away the dangerous thoughts he entertained in his mind. 

For days, the distance he put between himself and his father subconsciously was killing him, tearing his already damaged heart yet again.

But he knows that it hurts Thranduil so much more, sees the sadness swimming in his cerulean eyes, sees the pain masked by the fake smile he often wears.

He tried to act normal, give his father the affection he normally gave. But, when he was with Thranduil, he often found his mind floating away, thinking over and over about what his mother said.

He had tried as hard as he could already, did everything he possibly could to convince himself that Kate was wrong, that his father would never be so callous with anyone, that it was all just a big misunderstanding.

But he can't shake the feeling off, as he realizes more and more everyday of the true resentment Thranduil has for Kate.

First, he had noticed as he was looking through the albums that there was never a picture of them as a family, some of the spaces which seemed to have held pictures portraying just that were empty, as if Thranduil couldn't stand seeing them.

Next, he realized that his mother couldn't possibly have taken all of her possessions, and a tiny search in the attic found a box with her name written across it in his father's writing.

When he opened it, he was shocked to find it containing nothing but a large pile of dark ashes, and after some thought, he realized that Thranduil had burned all of her things.

There were also other small clues supporting the suspicion that Thranduil truly hated his wife, but the biggest one of all was the fact that whenever Legolas would ask of Kate anymore, Thranduil refused to speak of her, or would quickly excuse himself, claiming he needed to sleep or something ridiculous of that ilk.

Legolas sighs, and he realizes that he'd been wrong all along. The melancholy that smothered Thranduil was not caused by missing someone he perhaps once loved. In fact, now Legolas had no clue as to what could be causing his father's eternal state of soft melancholy and subtle misery.

He was back to square one.

As he walks, the sound of the cars whizzing past and the brakes screeching to a halt, the sound of the chattering of people and the barking of dogs nearly drowns out the sound of his name being called.

His eyes widen, and he turns, pausing and glancing around himself.

Then he sees him.

He appears, donning not his signature tan coat, but a navy one, stretched across his broad chest and shoulders, his legs covered in dark jeans and his feet hidden in a pair of black boots.

A smile is threatening to split his face in half with the width of it, his sparkling white teeth displaying joy as equally as his hazel eyes.

"Mr. Bowman!" Legolas finds himself squeaking, crystal eyes wide and mouth hanging open as the taller man advances to him. "I--I--umm--"

Bard stops in froth of him, his smile toning down to just a soft grin, looking the younger man up and down.

"You look much better, darling," he notes as he takes in the sight of his formerly sickly-looking body. Although he's still all too thin and fragile looking, a wave of relief washes over Bar as he gazes upon the seemingly stronger and healthier body.

"Thank you," Legolas says softly, sorting out the words in his head before it suddenly comes out in a slight jumble. "I-I'm so sorry I just...disappeared."

Bard's brow furrows before it raises in understanding, and he shakes his head with a smile. "It's fine, Legolas," he murmurs. "I luckily had my daughter around, she just started high school, needed some pocket money."

For some reason or another, that makes Legolas feel infinitely worse. "I'm so sorry," he repeats, heart sinking when he realizes that he'd allowed himself to let another person down. "I'm-I'm so ashamed of myself...I should've at least told you--"

"Darling, it's fine," Bard insists, putting his hands on Legolas' shoulders and bending down a little so he's eye-level with the younger man. "I knew you weren't happy; you needed to find the piece that was missing from your life before you functioned properly."

Legolas is quiet for a moment and in that time he wishes for so many things to be different. If he knew how caring Bard was, how he was somehow able to see his suffering and hear his cries, maybe he would've opened himself to him more, would've been able to appreciate how caring and sweet the other man seemed to be. 

"I don't deserve a person like you," Legolas says honestly, wrapping his arms around Bard's neck and pressing the side of his face against his chest. "And I'm still so sorry--"

"Shh, darling," Bard whispers, gently putting his arms around the younger and rubbing his shoulders affectionately.

Legolas vaguely registers the older man pulling him into an alleyway, probably to get them out of the middle of the sidewalk, he figures, as he quietly tries to show Bard his deep admiration and gratitude.

It's a while of Bard's large and strong hands gently caressing his shoulders before they slip down his arms so slowly and gently that the younger almost doesn't notice his movements. They gently touch the warm skin of the back of Legolas' hands before taking hold of them.

Legolas pulls away slowly, looking up at him with wide and curious eyes. He can't explain it, but he feels his stomach turn at the way Bard is looking at him, like he's a beautiful, marble statue or some delicious prey waiting to be devoured.

"Mr. Bowman--?" Is all he can whisper before hot lips are crashed into his, his breath taken away by his body being spun so fast and shoved against the dirty, brick wall. His hands are pinned to the surface above his head, his eyes wide as he's frozen by the suddenness and roughness of the older's actions.

Bard kisses Legolas enthusiastically, biting his ripe bottom lip as if it were some sweet fruit and making the younger groan, forcing his tongue into the blonde's mouth. Legolas gags.

Bard pulls away after a bit, pupils blown wide and panting against the younger's lips.

Legolas stares at him with large, round eyes, shaking. As much as he wants to shove Bard away, he can't take control of his body, as it remains unmoving and frozen against the wall.

"What are you doing?" Legolas whispers, trembling. In that moment, he's ashamed to admit that he's afraid, afraid of what Bard can and will do. The alley is somehow darker, only a small strip of sunlight pouring through the slot between the roofs of the buildings, much more narrow than other ones he's been in, and a feeling of anxiety claws at his stomach. Of all the times to realize just how claustrophobic he was...

"Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?" Bard murmurs, burying his face in the pale length that is Legolas' neck and licking the skin there.

The feeling of the warm, wet muscle touching him in such an intimate place sets fire to Legolas, and he suddenly bucks, trying to kick and pull his hands free from the brunet, screaming for only a brief moment before one of Bard's hands covers his mouth, passing both of Legolas' wrists into the other.

"Shh, baby," he whispers darkly, moving up and pressing his forehead against Legolas' as the younger's mind screams. "It's alright, you don't have to be afraid."

"Stop it," Legolas cries into his palm, the words muffled and unclear, tears filling his eyes when he's overpowered by the larger and stronger man. "Don't touch me--"

"As if I could keep my hands off you now," Bard chuckles, tenderly nuzzling Legolas' shoulder, lovingly and sweetly, as if he isn't the monster that's stealing away his innocence with every touch, every desperate, rough kiss.

Legolas never imagined that his first time was going to be like this, forced and spontaneous. He doesn't wish that he had tried to seek pleasure in his earlier years (as if he could, with the type of life he had been living), but he wishes he could have somehow avoided this whole situation.

Somehow, Legolas is able to shove Bard away for only a split moment, and in that time he runs as quickly as his shaking legs will take him, the sinking feeling of despair becoming stronger when he realizes how far away from the city he is, how deep and hidden in the small alley they are.

He lets out a sharp cry when he feels Bard crash into him, sending them into free fall. They collapse onto the hard, dirty pavement, Legolas' shouts dying when Bard falls on top of him, his weight not nearly enough to crush his delicate body but enough to send intense waves of pain through him.

"You shouldn't have tried to run, darling," Bard whispers into his ear as he grabs the younger's tiny wrists and forces his arms to extend backwards at a painful angle, making him whimper in pain. "I wish you wouldn't force me to be so rough with you, but you should know that you've only made things worse for yourself."

"Why are you doing this?" Legolas inquires tearfully, humiliation and self hatred burning through him as he wishes he weren't so weak, so powerless against anything and everything.

"Because I love you," Bard says, and Legolas can't tell if he's joking or not.

He feels his hands gently touch his neck, trail down his collar to the first button.

Fear races through him, and he can barely whisper, "Please don't--" before his shirt is ripped away from him, the creme colored buttons scattering all over the concrete.

He remembers screaming his father's name before everything suddenly turns black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...that was that.
> 
> Thank you very much for taking the time to read this! Please leave kudos and/or comments if you thought it was worthy! Any encouragement really brightens my day and helps me along! Don't be afraid to tell me what you think! :)
> 
> I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors, and any not-really-well-written parts. 
> 
> Again, much gratitude from me to you for your time! See you all next week! \•o•/
> 
> xxxx Vanilla


	11. I Just Want To Know Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil forces Legolas to see things the way he sees them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! 
> 
> I'm sorry this is kinda late. I've been ultra super mega busy this past week and I really wanted to take as much time as I could to make this chapter good, because it's so important to me.
> 
> I hope you like it, and without further ado, please immerse yourself in the world of fiction.

Light.

It's the first thing he notices; it shines brightly behind the veiled curtain, gently pulling him out of sleep.

Upon opening his eyes, he finds himself in his bed, safe under the heavy duvet and warm from the sunlight pouring over him from the window above.

A ghost of a smile graces his features for a moment; morning light had always comforted him, and he always took pleasure in the heat and beauty it provided.

He yawns, stretches for a moment before he's suddenly aware of the dull pain in his neck, scattered in unusual patterns across his chest.

He lies there for what seems like a long while. Then, he remembers. 

Touches, unwanted and unwelcome.

His own screams that seem to curdle his blood with their memory and make his skin raise into goose flesh all over him.

He sits up so hastily that the sudden rush of blood leaves him dizzy, and he bolts out of the bed and into the conjoined bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

He tears off his shirt when he halts in front of the mirror, as he hopes and prays that what happened was only a bad dream, a product of the stress he'd been suffering over the week.

But, behold, there are bruises covering his chest, a large amount of his neck is dark and purple with hickeys, and he chokes, feeling bile rise in his throat and hopelessness sink into his soul.

He collapses to his knees, not knowing if the action was caused by the weakness or the unwillingness to hold his body up any longer.

Just when he thought he couldn't hate himself any more, when he thought that although he defiled his own body, no one else could, this had happened.

Someone he trusted and respected to advantage of him and did the unthinkable. Stole away his remaining innocence and took pleasure in it.

Legolas sobs into his shoulder and it feels like he can't breathe. His hands tear away the bandages from his wrists, ripping open some of the fresher and barely healed cuts.

He watches the blood spill out through his tears.

But he feels nothing.

No relief in the barely present pain, no comfort in the red trail that begins making its way down his arm.

He stands and looks frantically for the razor, the one he had used only a while before, and he screeches in irritation and rage when he realizes that it's nowhere in sight.

It horrifies him, and he cries out like a wounded animal, sweeping everything off the counter in one quick, angry motion.

He can't hear the banging on the door, his father yelling orders for him to open. How could he, if he could barely even hear his own screams?

His fingernails dig into his cuts, and he just wants to feel, feel something other than the hatred and disgust that burns his soul. But even the pain does nothing to distract him, no matter how deeply his fingers reach into his arms.

He lets out a sound that's half a sob, half a cry, and he buries his bloody hands in his hair, mind racing and heart breaking.

Suddenly, he's wrapped in strong arms, and the feeling is what makes him snap, because it's too similar, gives him a feeling that's too close to how he felt when Bard held him, and he screams as loud as his lungs will allow, fights and writhes in the embrace.

"Legolas!"

The voice is what freezes him in place, shocks him so deeply and jolts his heart.

His father.

He wasn't there when he was being defiled, when he was being violated and torn apart. It makes Legolas sink into hopelessness, and he feels dirty, ruined by Bard's touches.

His father was always a higher being of purity and light, in Legolas' eyes at least, and he'd rather throw himself off the highest building in the world before being the one responsible for spoiling his angelically pure father.

"Ada, don't touch me, please," he cries, trying to break free of Thranduil's embrace.

"Legolas!" Thranduil shouts, his name followed by a string of unfamiliar Elven words, and he holds his son tightly despite his wriggling. "Stop fighting--"

"Let me go!"

"Iôn-nín, saes!"

"Don't touch me!" Legolas turns in Thranduil's arms with all of his effort and tries to shove him away, but he's still too weak, and with a horrifying realization, he learns that he'll never be strong enough.

He shuts his eyes and screams.

And it all unfolds so quickly that Legolas almost doesn't realize what had happened.

The now silent air seems to echo the sharp crack that has filled the room, his cheek suddenly burning with the sharp pain of a ring nearly slicing his skin open.

He doesn't cry out, only shakes and trembles; he realizes that Thranduil had seized his ultimate right as a parent and struck him.

There's a long moment of silence between them, as Thranduil draws away from his child, shaking and pale.

He doesn't say anything, only begins to wipe up the blood on his son's arms silently and re-bandage him; he cleans the dried remnants of blood in his son's light hair and cleans up the mess he's made in the bathroom.

Quietly and calmly, he orders Legolas to leave and sit on their bed, and even before he finishes telling his son what to do, the younger already disappears.

As he walks down the halls, he's still shocked and shaken to the core, he can't think clearly or even really begin to process what had happened, besides the fact that his father slapped him.

He sits on their bed quietly, and his mind seems to race through possible outcomes of the situation even though in reality it's going nowhere.

His mind is empty, and the only thing he can think over and over again is this: 

He hit me.

Legolas isn't angry, as he knows that his father had every right to strike him across the face. 

He recalls from his childhood the thousands of times that Thranduil had held himself back, even in the worst cases when Legolas would scream horrid things at him.

He feels tears form in his eyes, and he wraps his arms around himself.

Thranduil had tried to help him, continues to through all this time. Even when Legolas doesn't correspond or even return the good deeds Thranduil does for him, his father's care and love for him never wavers, never fades.

Thranduil tries his hardest to be the best parent, tries to fill the shoes of being a father and a mother to Legolas, and all he seems to do is return Thranduil's love with hatred and poison.

He doesn't deserve the author's care and affection, and he never did.

The only thing he seems to deserve is a beating, a long and bloody one.

Legolas dissolves into tears, and his fists clench the material of his shirt tightly in his hands, his white, upper row of teeth sinking into his bottom lip deeply enough to draw blood in an attempt to stifle his sobs, chin trembling with anguish.

He wishes he was worthy enough to amount to something important in Thranduil's life, just as the latter was in his own.

But in his heart of hearts, he knew it'd never be true, it was a faraway, distant, unobtainable phantom of a dream, and that only breaks his heart more.

He vaguely registers Thranduil's presence, barely feels the cool, gentle hand on his shoulder.

The author is on his knees in front him, opting to stare at the bandages covering his arms rather than his face.

In that moment, neither of them can look one another in the eye. 

"I'm sorry, my love," Thranduil apologizes, voice deep with regret and face contorted with dolor.

Legolas can't even formulate a reply through his agony, and he just sobs openly, looking away in shame.

Thranduil can't help but feel his own tears well up in his eyes; after all, it was his fault he lost control, his fault his child is crying.

"Legolas, saes, amin hiraetha," he repeats, pulling his son's hands off of his shirt and holding them tightly. "Please, look at me."

Legolas trembles, and he finally shows his face. The older can hear his heart shatter in his chest when he sees the welt on his son's beautiful face, the stripe of raised, red skin caused by his violence.

"Gods," Thranduil murmurs under his breath, and it hurts to not cry. He cups his child's face in his hands even though Legolas tries to recoil, wounding Thranduil so deeply. His thumb gently brushes over the raised skin, and he can't help but let one, lone tear slide down his cheek. "My love, I'm...I'm so sorry, please forgive me."

"It's okay," Legolas sniffs, biting his lip as he tries to force his voice to steady. "I deserved it."

"Legolas, no," Thranduil whispers, voice heavy with his torment. "I shouldn't have-- I shouldn't have lost my control like that."

Legolas stays quiet as his father studies the mark he made, soul consumed with suffering. 

He hates that he laid his hands on his son in that way; he hates that he was so callous and impulsive, so desperate to stop his son's cries.

In attempting to cease his forlornness and heartache, he caused Legolas's weak heart even more desolation.

"Ada," Legolas soft voice whispers, pulling Thranduil out of his mournful reverie, suddenly monotone. Thranduil notices that there are no longer tears streaming down his alabaster cheeks, no hint of emotion on his once expressive face. 

What he says next makes Thranduil's heart skip a beat.

"You should hit me more."

The statement confuses the older so much it causes his intellectual and reasonable mind to swerve and spin out of control, his heart to fracture and his soul to burn.

"What ever are you speaking of, my child?"

"Maybe...maybe you should slap me more," Legolas says, so quietly it's barely even a breath. 

Thranduil can't even respond; how could he? What could one say when the love of their life voiced a desire to be...hurt? By them, of all people?

Legolas suddenly lets out a sad, little laugh, looking away as his blue eyes fill with tears once more. "Maybe if you beat me enough, I'll get some sense knocked into me..."

Thranduil can't understand how the intense pain that short sentence causes him doesn't kill him right then and there. "Darling--"

"Or maybe I'll be worth something," Legolas thinks out loud, ignoring the liquid that slips down his face and betrays his sadness. "Even...even if I only amount to a punching bag."

He laughs again, as if the situation is hilarious. "It'd be much more than I am now."

A tear slides down Thranduil's face, followed by another, and the pain nearly makes it unbearable to speak. "What are you saying?"

"He touched me, Ada," Legolas whispers, and the first show of emotion is the swirling torment in his crystal eyes, and the way his voice pitch grows higher with mourning. "I used to think I...I was nothing."

He looks away again as a tear slips down his sweet face. "Now it's really true. I--I don't even have my--"

And he grows red and bursts into tears, shaking as he tries to vainly rub the liquid out of his eyes.

He feels nothing and hears nothing as he cries, no comforting arms to hold him together or whispers of consolation to try and mend his broken heart. 

"You should leave me." Legolas sniffs, bites his lip and hides his face in his hands in shame. Of course his father wouldn't want to touch him; who would? "I'm disgusting and ruined and no one wants me anymore--"

"Sweetheart, no," Thranduil's voice suddenly interjects, and he feels himself being pulled into the author's tight embrace. He sobs into his father's neck, and tries to lock the feeling of being in safe arms into his heart before he's pushed away; he knows it's only a matter of seconds before Thranduil recoils in disgust.

But it never happens.

In fact, Thranduil holds him tightly for as long as he cries, whispering soothing words into his ear and pressing occasional kisses to his temple. 

It takes a few minutes for Legolas to get a hold of himself, compose himself enough so that he doesn't burst into tears at a simple word. When he does, he looks apologetically at his father.

"Legolas," Thranduil begins, voice soft and careful. He sits beside his son on the bed, taking a moment to think of what he was about to say. "You...you think that man--"

Legolas nods quickly, cheeks flushing with mortification as he tries not to cry.

"Oh, tithen-las," Thranduil sighs, frowning. He gently takes his son's hand into his own as he stares into his eyes. "You believe I'd let you suffer that fate?"

"You didn't let me," Legolas murmurs, looking down at his lap when he can't bear to look into Thranduil's eyes. "It can't be your fault if you weren't even there."

"But I was there."

Legolas looks up sharply when the author says that, stares at him with a confused face.

A small, mirthless, half-smile appears on his lips, and he shakes his head a bit. "Legolas, my beautiful love, you don't think I'd let that sick bastard touch you, do you?"

When the perplexed expression doesn't disappear, Thranduil stands without a word, walks over to the bedside stand and pulls a couple of papers from it, handing it to Legolas.

The younger takes them hesitantly, and looks them over. 

It takes a while for his restless, frantic mind to focus on the writing and the content of the papers, but after staring at it for a few minutes, his eyes widen.

"Ada," he whispers so softly, looking up at Thranduil with teary eyes.

He smiles slightly, taking a seat beside the younger and placing a tentative hand on his back. "I--I didn't want them to test on you while you were awake. I made sure the doctors had you unconscious."

"You saved me," Legolas murmurs, and the relief hits him hard and suddenly like a wall of bricks, and he sobs, dropping the printed results of the rape kit the hospital performed on him. He's completely and utterly overwhelmed, mind muddled and slightly confused with all of the new information, and he leans towards his father, heart bursting when he feels the author's arms wrap around him lovingly.

"Thank you, Ada," Legolas finds himself whispering over and over, tears of relief spilling onto Thranduil's shirt. 

"It's alright, my love," Thranduil soothes, and the younger can actually hear the underlying joy in his words. "Be calm, sweet tithen-las.."

Thranduil gently detaches his son from himself, looks him in the eye as he gently caresses the tears away from his red cheeks. "You shouldn't cry, baby. It makes me sad."

Legolas can't help but let out a short laugh at his father's unusual simplicity of words, swiping his hands across his face. He feels a warmth bloom in his chest when he hears Thranduil join in his laughter for a moment. 

"I love you," Legolas declares, the statement only a little sniffle but holding as much meaning and power as the ocean. He wraps his arms around his father again, hiding his face in his chest as if he were a small child again. "I love you so much, Ada."

Thranduil smiles, and holds his son, placing a kiss on his golden head. "I love you too, baby."

They stay in that position for a while, simply holding each other as the both try to comprehend the situation.

When Legolas' sniffles die down, he mumbles something so inaudible that even with Elven ears, the older can't understand him.

"What was that, love?" He pulls away just the slightest so that his son's words were no longer muffled into his chest.

"Thank you for...for keeping me.."

When Thranduil cocks his head to the side in the slightest degree, clearly confused by his child's words, Legolas blushes, and rushes to explain, stumbling over a few words.

"Umm...what I mean to say is--" the younger blonde looks down, staring at their entwined hand for a moment to calm himself, "--thank you for not...not kicking me out."

Gentle, cool fingertips press against the bottom of Legolas' chin, and he looks up into his father's incredulous and slightly offended face.

"Don't be ridiculous, 'Las," he whispers, seemingly aghast at such a thought of throwing his child out. "Why ever would I do something so stupid?"

Then, he sees it.

Though still and nearly expressionless, Thranduil can see the emotions raging wildly in his honest, beautiful eyes, can see the self hate and anger at himself burn bright in those orbs.

"Love, don't do that," Thranduil admonishes.

"Do what?" Legolas looks at him strangely.

"I see it, you know," Thranduil says quietly, his words soft and sad. "I can see what you feel, in your eyes.."

Legolas smiles mirthlessly. "Then you can see how much I hate myself."

"And why do you?" Thranduil needs to be able to get his child speaking; he knows that they sorely need to talk about the self-loathing the author sees frequently in the boy's heart, before the feeling consumes his love again.

"Why shouldn't I?" Legolas inquires, tearing his gaze from his father's eyes and looking at the floor.

"I've always told you that there is a reason for everything, haven't I?"

"Yes," Legolas answers, "and I've got more than enough reasons to feel this way."

Thranduil isn't so sure that he wants this, to hear undoubtedly words of animosity and disgust directed toward Legolas by his love himself, but he has to know. How else could he pull him out of the dangerous spiral he's in?

"I'm weak and cowardly, for one thing," Legolas begins, and the contempt in his voice is stronger than the force that creates hurricanes. "Yesterday was an amazing example of that."

Thranduil frowns, and it kills him to hear Legolas say such horrible things, but keeping in mind that they both need to get past this, he murmurs, "Continue."

"I'm...I'm stupid and ugly," Legolas admits, tears filling his eyes but he blinks them away with an exasperated sigh. "And I'm not very useful...for anyone. I tried getting jobs all around the city when I lived alone--" his eyes widen and he's quick to add "--under an incognito name, of course."

"An alias?" Thranduil narrows his eyes, and his heart hurts a bit to think that his own child refused his name.

"Yes," Legolas nods, but there's no shame, no regret in his eyes when he looks at his father's face. "A lot of people recognized me, thought that I was..that I was Legolas Oropherion."

"And were you not?"

Legolas smiles, but it's the smile of heartache. "No," he denies softly. "No, I wasn't.

"I wasn't Legolas Oropherion," he repeats, appearing distant to Thranduil once more as he's absorbed into his past. "I wasn't your son, the son you needed.

"I was a horrible coward. I was too afraid of what had happened, too heavy with the guilt of..of your attack on my shoulders."

He quickly swipes at the moisture in his eyes.

"I had and still have every reason to hate myself, Ada," Legolas states firmly, staring at the city clouds through tears.

"But you have no right," Thranduil says quietly, taking a hold of his wrist. "No right for what you've done to yourself."

"Who are you to say what my rights entail?" Legolas asks, head snapping towards his father's direction, eyes suddenly full of bitterness and anger. 

"I'm your father." Thranduil keeps his face staid; not letting his vexation show.

How could his child still be so blind; how could he not see how much he amounted to in Thranduil's world?

"But you have no word on how I live," Legolas states stubbornly, pulling his hand free of the author's and crossing his arms. "And it's too late to change my mind about what I do, anyway."

When he looks back on the situation, he can't pinpoint why he was so defensive and angry.

Perhaps the years of suffering, crying and bleeding in the dark, alone, had made him bitter, made him wonder how others could question how he lived when they weren't even there to help him.

Thranduil sighs.

Legolas looks up when his father stands, sees how his fists are clenched and how his eyes are blazing with rage and sorrow.

Thranduil disappears out of the room, and the younger's heart throbs in pain as he's once more alone.

He buries his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees. 

He wishes he could erase how he acted, how he pushed the older away.

Tiny whispers immediately begin filling his mind, regret and self loathing coloring the words being said. He whimpers, and covers his ears, trying to block out the things that often leave him searching for a blade or a sharp object to drag over his skin.

They whisper of how Thranduil would only end up leaving him, would only give up on the tiny sliver of love he has for Legolas and move on.

He'd find someone better, someone stronger, braver, fairer. A gentle, loving soul to give him all Legolas can, and so much more. A comforting, warm body to hold at night, flawless and unmarked, pure and completely worthy of Thranduil's time and love.

Legolas' soul begins to tear at the thought, and the voices only grow louder, and louder, until they begin screaming. He wants to hide and never be found, he wants to somehow drown the voices out, but he knows he can't.

Suppressing them only leads to them growing louder, and louder only leads to Legolas beginning to tilt on the brink of insanity and distress.

He sobs and hides his face in his hands, gasping at the pain that clutches his heart tightly with the thought of Thranduil discovering that there were so many other people in the world to give him what he needed and deserved: unconditional love and eternal happiness.

He feels himself being hauled to his feet and pushed against the wall, and he feels panic begin to expand in his soul and make him sick. 

But he doesn't fight.

Whatever Thranduil is doing to him, good or bad, he deserves it. Maybe taking whatever his father is trying to give him will somehow make him an ounce more important, give Thranduil a reason to keep him, even if it's only a small one.

When Legolas finally looks up, he's shocked to see tears threatening to spill over in his father's beautiful, icy eyes, but what shocks him even more is the small razor being pressed into his hand.

It takes a few seconds for Legolas to register what's happening.

Thranduil's voice, heartbroken and tired, is soft as he speaks. "You want to cut? Fine."

It's such a small thing, such a tiny thing to bring a world of desolation and suffering. It takes hold of Legolas' soul with chaos and confusion, captures his heart and desires; though it remains unwanted and unwelcome, he can't seem to bring himself to throw the little piece of metal away, throw away the promise of distracting pain and false comfort it provides.

He's stares at it blankly for a while, hand shaking.

He sees Thranduil begin to raise his own sleeve up his arm, and once the pale skin is revealed, the older quietly offers it to his son.

The younger gasps as he realizes what Thranduil wants, what he's planning to make Legolas do, and it sends him spiraling into fear and horror.

"No," Legolas whispers, looking into his father's eyes and realizing that his move was a horrible mistake, as the determination is clearly seen in Thranduil's icy blue orbs. "No, no, no--I--I can't!"

Thranduil grabs his son's shoulder tightly when the younger tries to leave, effectively anchoring him into the corner as Legolas' tears begin sliding down his cheeks.

"What are you doing?" Legolas shouts in terror.

"You like to hurt yourself," Thranduil explains, voice flat and monotone, though the tear that falls betrays the underlying and hidden sadness in his heart. "And if you want to cut, then you're going to have to look me in the eye and cut my wrists as many times as you would cut your own."

Legolas cries out in protest when the author's strong hand wraps around his hand, brings it and the blade closer and closer to his own skin with every passing moment.

Legolas fights as hard as he can, determined not to let the sharp metal tough his father's unscarred skin, but as soon as he begins trying to rip himself away, Thranduil jerks him closer and presses the weapon Legolas so often used into his wrist.

Legolas lets out a piercing scream, tears streaming down his ashen face as he watches the red begin to spurt from Thranduil's wrist.

It only begins to hurt more as Thranduil forces the younger to drag the razor across his wrist, and Legolas cries and screams, begging his father to end the torture.

Hurting Thranduil mentally was already excruciatingly painful for the younger, but to see his own hand draw blood from his father...

After the razor glided completely across Thranduil's wrist, the older let his child go, watching, heartbrokenly, as Legolas collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

The crimson spills onto the floor, and the younger's heart is ripped over and over with the sight of every drop of life pouring out of his father's cut.

He tries to rub the liquid away with his hands, sobs as it only spreads and stains his hands.

There is no comfort in the sight of the blood any longer, because it's not his own life spilling, wasted away drop after drop.

"Why?" Legolas cries at his father's feet, shutting his eyes tightly and just wishing the sight of red would go away. "Why did you force me to--to--"

He dissolves into sobbing again, and he cries out when Thranduil grabs him by his arm and hauls him to his feet.

"Look at it, Legolas," Thranduil says firmly, though his voice quivers with torment at the end of the command. He shakes his son by the shoulder to force his eyes open.

"No!" Legolas screams, the sight of the deep wound in his father's wrist cutting his heart open. 

"Look, Legolas!" Thranduil shouts, covering his heartache with anger. "Look at what you've done!"

"No," the younger sobs, knees buckling under him due to the stress, and his heartstrings feel like they're torn out of his chest when Thranduil lets him fall. "I--I didn't want to--"

"Do you like the sight of it, insolent child?" the author shouts, his words echoing around the room. "Do you like seeing me bleed?"

Legolas cries out a "No!" before crumpling in on himself, trying to shield himself away from everything. 

He just wants the nightmare to be over. 

Suddenly, Thranduil's hands are gripping his arms, shaking him like a rag doll as he cries.

It gets Legolas to open his eyes, and he sees it again.

The crimson against pale skin. Devastating. Soul crushing.

He sees the blood trail down his arms, drip onto the dark, wooden floors.

But suddenly, it transforms into his own arms, darker blood staining bathroom tiles with every drop.

He sees tears on Thranduil's wrists, and any rational person would realize that they were Thranduil's tears as well, but in the younger's mind, it is his own.

Though the cut is not self-inflicted, there is still pain, hatred, sadness spilled into it, years of bottled up anger and emotions filling it to the brim and spilling over with the red.

It's no longer his father's cut he's staring at.

It's his own.

Legolas' heart skips a beat, and the burn in his heart is so strong and overwhelming, as if the pain his father was experiencing from the laceration was now his as well.

He rips his gaze away from Thranduil's wrists, and looks into his eyes. 

They are mirrors, and they reflect his desolation, his bitterness, his heartbreak.

And then he understands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading! I hope you thought it was at least okay... 
> 
> I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors, any bumpy or poorly written parts. 
> 
> Please please please help me out by giving kudos or sharing your thoughts in the reviews if you have time! It really makes my day! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> xxx Vanilla
> 
> (Iôn-nín= my son  
> Amin hiraetha= I'm sorry  
> Saes= please)


	12. Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Yes, I've finally uploaded another chapter.
> 
> But first, I'd like to adress the situation last week on my other chapter involving someone named Jennefir (?)
> 
> I'd like to say that I was a little more than upset at her comments at first, but suddenly, a bunch of lovely people swooped in my defense and that of the story's, and completely warmed my heart. You all are the best readers ever <333 Thank you, more than I can say.
> 
> Now, onto the chapter!

Legolas doesn't really talk to Thranduil for a few days following the incident, and the older almost regrets what he'd forced his son to do.

Of course, the younger still sleeps in the same bed with his father every night, but he no longer tucks himself into Thranduil's side or wraps his arms around him, opting to instead sleep at arm's length away from him.

It's so heartbreakingly different.

The whole atmosphere around them is completely unusual, a bit strained and tense.

Sometimes, Thranduil wants to scream or cry in frustration, because he doesn't understand. He doesn't know what to do; he really thought that forcing Legolas to see what he saw whenever the younger cut himself would work. 

But it only seemed to push his child away more, and it tears at Thranduil's heart.

He's lost all hope at restoring his and Legolas' relationship, and he finds he can't even bring himself to speak to him, as the sadness and pain in Legolas' eyes never fails to make him breathless with torment.

So he sits around the apartment, quiet and unmoving, silently wasting away. 

Days pass by.

And he loses a little bit of himself with every sunset.

It's one evening, while Thranduil is quietly sitting on the sofa and staring out into the city through one of the big windows, that Legolas comes from the kitchen. Although his back is turned to the doorway from which the younger entered, Thranduil can hear him get closer with each heavy thud of his foot on the floor.

Thranduil doesn't turn, only continues to let the brightly colored lights of the city enchant him. He tenses when Legolas' arms slide around his chest, when his child rests his chin on the space between Thranduil's neck and his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Legolas slurs, burying his face in the author's neck and kissing him there. "I'm very, very sorry."

Thranduil brings his hands up to dislodge his son's arms from him as gently as he can, but the latter grabs his bandaged wrist before the older makes another move.

His thumb gently caresses the shallow cut he made a few days ago through the soft cloth, and the older's heart hurts when he understands what his son is apologizing for.

The pain comes partly from how Legolas says sorry, so softly and tenderly, just how the older dared to imagine and wish for.

But what hurts more is the fact that this moment has come from Legolas somehow finding his alcohol and consuming copious amounts of it.

Yes, the younger blonde is drunk, tipsy at the very least; his hot breath filled with rum and wine proves Thranduil's suspicions correct when Legolas moves to kiss him.

"Stop that, Legolas," Thranduil says sternly, moving out of his son's loose embrace and shooting him a warning look.

He is flushed, a confused look worn on his sweet face. He walks (or stumbles) over to the other side of the sofa so that he can face his father without Thranduil turning in ridiculous degrees.

"Ada, what's wrong?" he inquires, genuinely perplexed as Thranduil groans and stands, grabbing his arm and beginning to drag him into their bedroom.

The rest of Legolas' questions are distant and mumbled, as they walk through the empty, dark hallway. Memories of times, simpler and happier, hanging and adorning the walls are only glimpses as they both move by quickly.

Legolas nearly trips two or three times on the way, and it seems like eternity until they are finally in the bedroom.

"A-Ada, have I done something wrong?" Legolas questions for the fourth time as Thranduil gently pushes him to sit on the bed.

"Yes," Thranduil answers shortly, careful to avoid his son's eyes as he begins tugging off his shirt. When he's drunk and asleep, half the time, he almost manages to choke himself to death by twisting the neckline of his shirt subconsciously. He wouldn't let something like that to befall his son.

"What'd I do?"

"You've gotten yourself drunk, that's what," Thranduil scoffs lightly, draping the bedsheets over his lithe body.

He tries to keep himself impassive to his son, knowing that if even a tiny corner of his indifferent and calm facade breaks, he'll shatter completely.

"Ada, don't leave," Legolas pleads when Thranduil moves to stand, grabbing his wrist gently.

His eyes are so clear, bright with the fake happiness and ecstasy alcohol provides. 

Thranduil hates it; he hates how they've come to this, to them both being at a point where they can't speak their feelings openly and fearlessly.

He hates how his love resorted to drinking, as he himself would so often do.

"Ada, I'm lonely," Legolas states with a small smile. "Please don't leave me."

Thranduil can't resist such an innocent and genuine request, and he sighs, sitting on the space beside Legolas.

He stares blankly at the white wall in front of him, trying to ignore the weight of his child's gaze upon him.

"Are you still angry?" Legolas inquires quietly, the question halfway interrupted by a drunk hiccup. 

"I never was," Thranduil shakes his head, finally looking at the younger with a confused look. "Why? Do I look angry?"

Legolas shakes his head as well, rubbing his red nose for a second. "No.. But you're ignoring me."

The author sighs again, and he knows he can't bear to say the next thing he would eventually say to his love's face, so he looks at the wall again. "I don't want to talk to you right now."

"Why? Because you're angry?"

Thranduil looks at his child sharply, but Legolas barely bristles, looks as unaffected and normal as he possibly could. 

"I apologized, Ada." He hiccups again, before rubbing his throat with an annoyed grimace. "I don't know why you won't forgive me."

The last sentence makes tears well up in the older's eyes, but he blinks them away quickly, directing his gaze elsewhere. "There's nothing to forgive."

"It was my fault that--" 

They both blush to certain degrees when they realize they spoke the same statement at once, and Legolas, filled with liquor and an unusual amount of mirth for his normally depressed state, giggles.

The sound makes Thranduil's heart sing for a short moment, but he doesn't let it show.

"It was my fault," Legolas begins again seriously, sounding strangely sober but stumbling a bit over his words, "that I let you--let you be hurt even when I thought I was just hurting myself. I--I knew I should've stopped..but I couldn't.

"I don't want to hurt you like that again," Legolas resolves quite firmly, despite his wine induced stuttering and his intoxicated state, "because now I understand that I just make you sadder when I--I do it."

"Ai, Legolas," Thranduil murmurs, and he wipes the liquid that's definitely not tears away from his cheeks as he tries to hide his face from his son.

He, King of Mirkwood, hiding his face from a mere little baby.

What's become of him?

"Come here, Ada," Legolas slurs tiredly, grabbing Thranduil's shoulder and tugging him down on top of him. His arms are heavy as they wrap around the older in a way they never had before, holding him as Thranduil so often did. 

Thranduil's ear is pressed against the younger's chest, and he can hear every strong heartbeat, seemingly in rhythm and time with his own. 

It's strange, to be held in such a possessive and protective way, to be held as he once was thousands and thousands of years ago when he was only an Elfling, but it somehow makes Thranduil feel the comfort and solace he can so rarely enjoy. 

Prickling liquid fills his eyes as he realizes that he'd never felt this way for centuries.

He buries his face in Legolas' chest, and lets his tears soak into Legolas' pale skin, shuddering when the younger begins to speak again.

"You're crying, Ada," Legolas whispers, and the sadness that taints his words only increase the well of anguish in the older's heart. "Why?"

Thranduil doesn't answer, only quietly draws in a shuddering breath.

There are so many things he wants to say: how much Legolas means to him, how he wants, no, needs to tell the younger of his worsening condition, how the possibility of him falling asleep and never waking up again was so real and likely to happen.

But the older can't tell him any of these things.

He lets out a frustrated sigh.

It almost seems that he'll never be able to say these things.

"Ada, you can tell me," Legolas murmurs, hand splaying over his back and rubbing him gently.

"I can't," Thranduil disagrees quietly, but he presses his cheek harder against his son's soft skin, closes his eyes and tries to find some sort of comfort in Legolas' arms. 

Legolas hiccups, a pout forming on his rosy lips. "But--but I've told you everything. It's not fair."

"I'll tell you soon, my little leaf," Thranduil's heart is heavier with the promise. "But not now. Not like this."

Legolas grows silent for a short while.

"But Ada--"

"Not now, Legolas."

"Why?" the younger inquires, a tinge of anger coloring his words. "B-because I drank a bit of your wine?"

"No, because you're drunk." Thranduil shuts his eyes tightly, tries to will his child to sleep. It's stupid, in hindsight, but no one could see Thranduil's desperation, his deep longing to just simply end the night.

"I've only gotten a bit tipsy," Legolas protests, shifting a little to accommodate his father's larger body above his own. "And besides, I only did it to--to get some courage."

"Courage?" Thranduil repeats, eyes opening and looking up at the blonde. "What do you mean?"

"I couldn't--couldn't apologize to you without something to dull the--the anxiety," Legolas admits a bit sheepishly, giggling a little when he puts his own hand against his flushed cheek. "But I must've gotten a bit carried away--didn't stop till I was--I was getting a bit warm."

Thranduil groans, shutting his eyes again and dropping his forehead onto the younger's chest.

"But I've clearly gotten the job done!" Legolas declared proudly, smiling widely. "I--I mean, assuming you've forgiven me."

"Please go to sleep, my love."

"Not until you've returned the favor."

Thranduil frowns. "You know I'm not telling you anything, not until you've sobered up, at least."

"Just want to know one thing."

Thranduil sighs.

"Are we...okay now?"

The author's brow furrows in confusion but he stays with his cheek pressed against his love's chest, rather than sit up and look at the younger like he's tempted to do. "What do you mean?"

"You're...you've forgiven me about hurting you, and I...I can look forward to us going back to normal?" 

There's something about the way he says it, quiet and fragile, all sense of joy bereft as if it was nothing but a dream, replaced with solemnity and a subtle melancholy. 

Thranduil opens his eyes but he doesn't look at the younger, only takes Legolas' hand in his own and kisses his palm lovingly. 

He stares at the long, slender fingers, the pale skin that's much warmer than his own. 

A drop of sunlight must've fallen from the heavens while the Valar created him, and fallen onto the perfect and beautiful child, no doubt. 

The thought warms Thranduil's heart, and he kisses it devoutly once more, shutting his eyes and cradling it against his chest. For a minute, he doesn't really know how to answer the question. 

His own fear of them reverting back the next day to the same way they were, distant and detached, hurt his heart and crushed the remains of it.

But for now, he pretends.

"Of course," he murmurs.

"It's been so long since we've been happy, Ada," Legolas says softly, and hearing his voice, one would not guess that he had ever touched alcohol within the past twenty four hours. "What was it like?"

Tears fill Thranduil's eyes as he tries to imagine, to remember what it was like to be completely happy and content, with his beautiful son by his side, day by day, unharmed and completely loved.

"Imagine a faraway life where we sit in the last rays of the golden sun, in an untouched and unknown meadow, surrounded by nature," Thranduil begins, swallowing as he tries to paint a picture for himself and his son. 

In doing so, he tries to comfort them both. "Imagine how peaceful we'd feel, to know that we remain there forever, alone and together all at once, warm and light, joy filling every crack of our souls and mending our once broken hearts."

Thranduil pauses to swallow the sob that has arisen. 

How desperately he desires to only be happy! To have a joyful and blessed life with his son like he'd always dreamed.

But that was what all of these were: simple dreams. 

Dreams, never to be obtained. Never to be held and called his own.

"And then?" Legolas whispers, and his voice is full of amazement, quiet longing.

"Untroubled, unworried, with no guilt or horror to weigh us down, we'd run free and unrestrained, finally together again to be no longer separated by life and it's wearisome toils."

Despite Thranduil's best efforts, a few tears manage to trail down his snowy cheeks, landing on Legolas' skin and remaining there.

Legolas is quiet for a long, long while as he thinks about what his beloved father had said, his breathing evens out, his heartbeats begin to slow. 

The author believes, with some sort of strange relief, the younger to be asleep. 

He sniffs and wipes his eyes, startling when Legolas' hand comes to pet his hair lovingly. 

"If you had one wish for now... what would it be?" Legolas questions softly.

Thranduil can barely breathe as he answers.

"That none of this ever happened."

"Do you regret me?" The sorrow and hurt that appears so suddenly in Legolas' voice is enough to amount to a physical blow to Thranduil's self.

He scoffs, trying to hide the fact that the anguish in Legolas' words has an effect on him. "Stop being silly, baby," he admonishes. "Of course I don't."

Legolas sniffles, wiping his eyes. "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

'You won't even remember this tomorrow,' is the sad little thought that swirls in his head for the rest of the night.

••••••

As Thranduil had expected, he wakes up alone again, the sheets cold with no indication of his child's warmth.

He swallows and tries not to let it bother him; of course things were the same as the past few days. With Legolas' drinking, the night before was probably nothing but a forgotten memory to the younger.

Heart hurting, he decides he might as well stay in his bed. There wasn't really much of a reason to get up, as he would probably end up falling asleep again for the most of the day.

He hides his face in his pillow and tries not to cry.

••••••

It's afternoon when he wakes up again.

He turns his head in hopes of looking out the windows, only to find Legolas sitting on his half of the bed, a confused and thoughtful expression on his face as he stares at his father.

His son's appearance startles him more than he can say; after all, he'd expected Legolas to drift and begin to hide away again, as usual.

But no, there his angel sits, golden hair tied up in a loose bun, ocean eyes fluttering perplexedly. 

"Ada?" he calls softly, touching his shoulder gently.

"Hello," Thranduil greets almost shyly, blushing with mortification as he realizes how late in the day it was. He sits up with some effort, leaning against the headboard. 

He studies his son for a moment, takes in his glowing peachy skin and rosy lips. 

His soul aches when he thinks of how long it was since he was able to openly study Legolas' features.

"Is there something you want, love?" Thranduil inquires quickly, trembling a little. 

He can't stand to have Legolas near him for long, if it only means that he'll be taken away from him for the next coming weeks.

Legolas shakes his head, still gazing at his father like it was the first time he saw him in years.

Surprisingly enough, Legolas' intense gaze unnerves the older in a strange and intimate way, and he shifts a little, determined not to let the younger see how much he affects him.

"Is there something you need?"

Legolas' mouth opens a little, a thousand thoughts flying through his head in only a few short seconds. His mouth feels dry, but his eyes are swimming in tears.

He gulps, and whispers, "You."

Thranduil looks away as if he's pained by that answer, staring at the skyline with anguish filled eyes.

"Ada, please--" Legolas pauses, because he doesn't know what he's asking for.

"Don't do this again, Legolas," Thranduil says, voice only a dangerous whisper to cover the scream his heart makes. "I can't stand it if were brought back together only to be separated by something again."

Thranduil's heart throbs painfully with the thought, and he tries to keep the tears at bay. At least while Legolas is here.

"I can't stand being torn apart from you again," he whispers, and curses when he feels a tear begin to slip down his cheek. As he brings his hand to wipe it away, Legolas is suddenly drawn near, expression miserable and full of despair.

"Don't cry, beloved," the youth murmurs, cupping his father's face in his hands and gently rubbing the drops of bitter emotion away from his pale face. He kisses the author's face reverently and lovingly, the actions filled with longing. "I'm so sorry about what's been happening these past few months, but I promise that I won't hurt you again." 

He presses his forehead against Thranduil's. "Ada, please, just give me one last chance," he pleads desperately, heart heavy with his love's despondency. "I promise I'll try my hardest to make you happy."

A long silence follows, and Legolas clings to the hope that he will accept him and his love.

He has to.

Without Thranduil, he has no reason to exist.

Finally the author responds.

"No," Thranduil shakes his head, pulling away.

Legolas feels his heart sink, and he becomes incredibly sick to his stomach in the matter of seconds.

But then, his father takes his hands before the tears in his eyes can spill, and looks him in the eye with his own forlorn, pained ones.

"Promise not to leave me like this again," Thranduil says, a tremor in his usually strong voice. "I can't bear to be miles away from you, but to have you so close, in my house, yet so far in mind and heart...it is only torturing me, my love."

"I promise," Legolas nods quickly, throwing himself against his father and clinging onto his shirt tightly, shaking as he begins to cry. "I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry--I promise I'll be better--I'll be anything you want, just please--"

"That's all I need, darling," he whispers, kissing his cheek and holding him tightly. "That's all I need."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I know.
> 
> This was quite sad and emotionally heavy. I sincerely hope you all aren't getting bored with this carousel of negatives emotions but I can assure you that happier times are near (very, very, very near)!
> 
> I'm sorry for all the mistakes, with whatever genre of mistakes they fit into; I sincerely apologize for that ._.
> 
> I haven't written happy chapters in a while, so I apologize if it takes a bit longer. Don't worry, I'll try my hardest to get one out as soon as possible.
> 
> But anyways, thank you for reading! Reviewing would really really really make my day!
> 
> <3333
> 
> xxxx Vanilla


	13. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm really excited," is all Legolas says, soft and nearly inaudible, almost as if he's trying to convince himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Here's my first happy chapter of this sequel *nervous smile* so please forgive me if its kinda... I don't know, I haven't written anything very happy in a while, so if it's a little off point, please don't be mad!!!

Rustling. Drawers slamming close. Light but almost frantic thuds of footsteps.

That's what Thranduil woke up to.

Legolas tears through their room like a mad man, taking bundles of Thranduil's suits and clothes and dumping them into a luggage like there's no tomorrow.

"What are you doing, baby?" Thranduil inquires, half-asleep as he sits up, dazedly watching the younger storm through the room.

Legolas halts his steps, looks up sharply from the two different moisturizers (Thranduil's, to be exact) he's holding, a large grin spreading across his face. "Oh good, you're awake!"

Legolas wrinkles his nose and looks back at the small bottles. "Which one do you even use, Ada?"

It takes a lot of energy to stand up, much more to deal with a nosy son. Thranduil slowly walks to the younger, head tilted a bit in confusion. "What are you doing, sweetheart?"

Legolas, seeming to deem that bringing the correct one for his father's sensitive skin didn't matter, threw one of the bottles onto their bed and began putting the other in a toiletry bag. "Packing, my silly."

Thranduil narrows his eyes, taking a quick moment to rub the sleep out of them. "Why?"

When he opens them again, Legolas is gaping, staring at him with disbelieving eyes.

"What?"

The younger's arms cross, and he tilts his head, shutting his mouth as a small quirk of a smile appears on his lips. "You don't remember...do you?"

Thranduil pauses, blinking. "Umm.." He begins hesitantly, "...no?"

Legolas lets out a soft incredulous laugh as he shakes his head fondly, walking past his sleepy father and entering the bathroom.

Thranduil follows him, confused. "Legolas, I demand to know--"

Fortunately, his half-awake brain forces him to halt when Legolas does, otherwise he would've run the poor darling over. He sees Legolas pull his phone out of his pocket.

"Where did you get my--"

Legolas succeeds once again in cutting him off, and he holds up the phone in front of Thranduil's face, waving it slightly.

'Your flight to California is today' is the simple reminder that shows up on his schedule.

Thranduil is frozen for a moment, only moving to take the piece of technology out of his son's hands when the latter jerks it toward him.

Thranduil is left standing there as the younger begins walking around the room and packing things again, staring at each and every word as if it were some strange and foreign language.

He had no idea that Legolas still desired to travel, even when so much had already happened. Vaguely, he wonders why his son seems so excited and ready to leave. 

He probably shouldn't question it, he decides.

•••••••

An hour into Legolas' choppy but happy ramblings and un-ending questions of the state they were about to be in, Thranduil decides that he ought to try and calm the exuberant youth.

In his mind, he's glad that they're flying in his private jet; after all, Legolas' jumpy and fidgety behavior would definitely put him in the front pages. Thranduil can already see the thousands of conspiracies circling around them, theories about Legolas either being high or drugged beyond his mind.

"Legolas, my sweet love," Thranduil places his hand on the younger's bobbing knee to stop the motion of excitement, "I think you should save your energy for when we get there."

"Oh, I'll have enough!"

"Legolas..."

Said person stares at him blankly for a second, before he blushes deeply, smiling half apologetically. "I'm sorry, Ada," he mumbles, obviously a bit embarrassed as he looks at his hands. "I..I suppose I'm just really, really excited about traveling."

"It's not a problem, baby," Thranduil assures, gently placing his hand on his back and rubbing him soothingly. He smiles a bit. "You haven't traveled in a while, have you?"

Legolas' eyes light up again and he grins widely as he looks at his father, shaking his head. "Oh no, I haven't traveled in more than--"

He pauses abruptly.

When Thranduil looks into his eyes, he sees some sort of sadness, a reserved melancholy in those crystal orbs as Legolas suddenly begins reminiscing. 

"Don't do that," Thranduil whispers, brushing a strand of golden hair from his face. "It's far behind us now... You know that, right?"

Legolas swallows, then nods, a trembling smile appearing on his face. He quietly looks out the window at the blue skies, stares at the fluffy clouds. 

"I'm really excited," is all Legolas says, soft and nearly inaudible, almost as if he's trying to convince himself.

Thranduil wraps an arm around his shoulders silently, and the younger leans into him with a soft sigh, shutting his eyes.

They fall asleep like that.

•••••••

If Thranduil had thought that Legolas' earlier excitement was the climax of his thrill, he was wrong.

It started when they landed.

Legolas was silent as they exited the plane and took a taxi to their five-star hotel, showing none of his previous enthusiasm or exhilaration. 

He didn't know that the thrill was silently building in the sweet boy, who looked far away as he stared at the tall buildings and tourists walking about.

It perplexed the author to no end, that Legolas seemed bored, but he didn't say anything, figuring that the young boy was simply tired.

How wrong he was.

Right when they enter their room, after waiting at the check-in desk for no time at all (being a very public figure sometimes had its perks), Legolas bolts toward the large windows of their penthouse suite, staring with large eyes at the city below them.

Thranduil quietly follows behind him, quickly directing the bell boy on where to put their things before tipping him generously.

After the man leaves, the author walks to his child, stands beside him as they both gaze at Los Angeles.

It's quiet for a little while, and Thranduil sighs, feeling a bit peaceful as he shuts his eyes.

Only to open them quickly when Legolas suddenly cries:

"It's beautiful, Ada!" Legolas tackles the startled author in a tight hug, laughing as he buries his face in Thranduil's chest.

It takes a moment for Thranduil to get a hold on his bearings again. "I'm glad you enjoy it already," he says almost half-dryly, though the small smile on his face shows his inner delight as he gently holds Legolas in his arms. 

When the younger glances up at him with wide, wonder-filled eyes, the intense emotions take the elf by surprise, and he laughs incredulously. "By the Valar, love, one would think you'd never seen the world!"

"We barely traveled together when I was younger!" Legolas defends, closing his eyes as he giggles. "And besides, I haven't been in California for ages! I miss everything here!"

Thranduil quietly nods in agreement, glancing at the city again. "What would you like to--"

"Beach!" Legolas shouts, jumping and landing on the author's feet by accident. 

Thranduil can't even feel it.

"Please let's go to the beach!" he pleads again, grabbing his father by his arms and trying to shake him, to no avail. "Now? Can we go now--?"

"Darling," Thranduil laughs at his enthusiasm, the way his eyes sparkle, "we just landed, and it'll be dinner time soon. Wouldn't you like to go tomorrow?"

"But Adaaaa...." Legolas trails off as Thranduil detaches himself from the younger's tight grip, and begins walking around the room, observing all of the details scrutinizingly. 

It's simple yet elaborate, a minimalist style with a few strange modern paintings on the gray walls. A few poorly made, stone sea shells lay on their small kitchen table (perhaps it was the style nowadays? He never knew anymore); the air smelled a bit too heavy and fruity for his liking, but the author decides it could be worse.

"Ada, pleeeease???" Legolas comes up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and leaning his forehead against his shoulder blade as he moans, "I need the beach in my life!"

"Sweetheart, it's still a no," Thranduil says sternly, but his tone is strange and somewhat playful, jesting, as if the younger's angst was comedic.

"You're the worst Ada ever!"

"That phrase stopped working when you convinced me to let you write a chapter for one of my books years ago." Thranduil shudders a bit at the memory.

"It was a great chapter!"

"Tell that to the critics who singled it out," Thranduil laughs.

"Well maybe that should tell you something." 

"Like what, my sweet?"

"Writing great chapters isn't in your blood," Legolas tries to state as seriously as he can; but how can he not let out a little giggle when Thranduil pauses his pacing around the room, and tenses a little. "If it was, I'd obviously be amazing at it."

The younger finally lets go of his false seriousness, throws his head back and laughs at his clever little retort, enjoying himself all too much.

When he's finished, however, it's completely silent for a few minutes, and Legolas can barely even feel his father drawing in breaths.

"Ada?" Legolas calls curiously, bending his body a little so he can try and look at his father.

An undignified yelp suddenly escapes him when the father turns, face contorted with false anger and offense. Legolas is quick to begin backing off, excitement and thrill pumping through his blood as Thranduil advances, each of the latter's moves calculated and full of precision.

Everything about Thranduil screams danger, and Legolas can't help but let out a few nervous laughs.

"Umm, come now, Ada," he tries to pacify the older as he continues moving backward, hand reaching out once in a while to ensure he doesn't bump into anything. "I--it was only a joke!"

"Was it now?" Thranduil growls, smiling evilly when the younger trips backwards onto the bed. The open and honest fear in Legolas' eyes fuel him, not to mention the wide grin on his son's face that taunts and almost mocks him.

"I'm sorry!" Legolas squeaks, propping himself up on his elbows and shuffling back as best as he could on the slippery, silk sheets.

An evil laugh is all that escapes Thranduil before he moves with lightening speed, diving onto the bed and crushing the yelping child under his body.

"Hold still, love," Thranduil laughs as his fingers begin dancing across the younger's body, delight filling every crack of his soul when Legolas shrieks with giggles, pleading for mercy.

"Ada--Ada stop!!" Legolas laughs breathlessly, struggling under his father as he tries to free himself. "Mercy, I beg you!"

"Then take back what you said!" Thranduil commands, pausing the torture for only a moment, smiling and enjoying the power all too much.

"You're an amazing writer--" the younger begins, before his eyes widen and he realizes his mistake.

"An?!?" Thranduil repeats incredulously, immediately starting to tickle him again.

He has to admit, it was far too long since he exploited the younger's greatest weakness.

"No, no!" Legolas shrieks. "I meant to say 'the' most amazing writer ever known to man!"

"And?" Thranduil punctuates it with a moment of squeezing his hand around his son's tiny knee, making Legolas cry out and laugh hysterically.

"And--and you're the most beautifullest, sweetest person ever!" Legolas screams, flailing as he tries to escape his father's hands.

"Thank you, iôn," Thranduil finally laughs, allowing his love to capture hold of his hands in hopes that it would keep the torture at bay. 

Legolas laughs as well, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the side in the slightest as he enjoys it, enjoys being in that rare moment, where everything is forgotten. 

All the pain, the anger...

Gone.

As if it was nothing but a dream.

"Love you," Legolas giggles breathlessly, leaning up the slightest and pressing his nose against the author's. "Even though you're--you're evil."

"Love you too," Thranduil chuckles, pressing a chaste kiss against his lips before finally rolling off his son, lying beside him as he pants, trying to catch his breath.

The moment is quiet and peaceful, still as the surface of a glass of liquid and just as beautiful as the sparkling water inside it.

Thranduil can feel himself letting go, setting free all the pain and anger that was kept locked up in his heart.

He swallows, quick to rub away the tears of relief that well in his eyes when he realizes it: 

He's happy.

"Ada, you okay?" Legolas whispers, and the older turns to see his sweet son looking at him, worry clear on his face.

"Yes," Thranduil replies softly, gently rolling over a bit to face Legolas and cupping his cheek with his hand, stroking the velvety skin with his thumb for a short minute.

Legolas smiles, gently pressing a kiss to his father's palm before snuggling into a more comfortable position.

He stares at the beautiful Elf, and he hates to break the moment, but he coughs, voice quiet and tentative as he inquires:

"So....beach?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much for reading! I'm sorry for any mistakes of any kind!
> 
> Please don't be shy and leave a review! It's really awesome for me to read!!!
> 
> xxxx Vanilla


	14. The End (?)

Firstly, if you were expecting a new chapter (which you probably were), I'm really sorry to disappoint you.

Now that I'm coming pretty close to the end of this (thank the high heavens, like seriously, this is lasting forever), I really wanted to say something that I've really kept to myself.

If I had a list of regrets (which I do...), writing this sequel would probably be close to the top, if not on the freaking top. 

And I don't want anyone to think I'm just saying this so you all pity me and feel forced to "encourage" me or whatever, because if that's the case, I don't want your sympathy. Seriously. If I'm a pity case to you, then please kindly leave.

This secret has been eating my insides up ever since the first few chapters, and what once seemed to be one little mistake began to grow with my regret and resentment for this story.

Don't get me wrong, I love writing. I've been writing ever since I was in middle school. But as I'm not used to posting online (or having any one read it, to be honest), I've never expected the pressure that comes to keep writing, to stay relevant. I've never felt like I needed to change up the plot for an audience, or "spice things up" or anything like that. 

What I mean to say is, when you're writing for an audience who you very much interact with, you kind of tend to begin writing for them, tweaking the story to their own personal taste, even if it means discarding your original plans. And it turns into a mess.

A bunch of other things have been happening in my life as well. School. Health issues. Family issues. Depression. All the good stuff you definitely need, especially when people begin arising in alarming rates telling you that what you spent hours working on literally sucks.

And I'm sorry I'm ranting. I really don't expect any of you to understand or sympathize. I just wanted you guys to know at least how I feel, and though I normally upload every Friday, I've been disappearing some weeks in the past for the previously mentioned reason. I don't think it's fair to any of you, and I'm only trying to explain why... Please don't hate me.

With that being said, I've decided that the best and only course of action I can take is permanently suspending this story. It may seem like an over-reaction or it might seem abrupt, but this story has seemed to have ended chapters ago, and I feel I have no other choice than to pull the plug, so to speak.

I may consider re-making this to make it into a better and more concise story, so I don't want to reveal the entire plot. However, even this prospect seems highly unlikely (like, sky high unlikely), so if there are any questions about this story and whatnot, please feel free to ask.

I'll leave this whole fiction up for at least a month, but please know that it's highly possible that it will be either orphaned or permanently deleted. (Hey, please don't blame me. I've been so emotionally upset these past few weeks, and I was really considering just deleting my account and leaving permanently without a word, but that's neither fair or courteous of me to do that to any of you, so I'm refraining.)

But for now, I'd just like to thank everyone who read, or left kudos or reviews. Please know that I'm entirely grateful for the time you spent, and I'm sorry I'm letting you all down this way (or maybe you're relieved?). 

...so..without further ado...

Bye...❤️


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